Gates of Summer
by theherocomplex
Summary: <html><head></head>Well, New York's screwed. Again. Still.</html>
1. Interlude: Westron Wynde, Part One

**Note: **This 'verse is structured in such a way that makes things a bit confusing when I post on this site, with Interludes bridging the larger, more action-oriented arcs and drabbles sprinkled in between. For reference, this fic begins a few hours after the end of _Walking Wounded_, and starts the build-up to the confrontation with the Boar.

And off we go!

* * *

><p>"Donnie, you've blown me off for more than a month. I'm starting to take it personally."<p>

Donnie groans. The last thing he wants to hear right now is Jenny's voice, pulling him out of the sweet cocoon of his bed. He's managed to wrap himself around someone small and very warm, and all he wants is to go back to sleep as he shamelessly steals a little more body heat from that small, warm someone.

"_Donnie._ I shouldn't have to hack your computer just make sure you're okay. Wake up!"

With one more groan for good measure, Donnie rolls onto his back and turns his head to his laptop. He blinks wearily at the screen, where Jenny watches him, eyebrows raised.

"What do you want," he says, not quite a question. His voice sounds like it's been dragged through a street full of rocks and broken glass.

"Oh good, you're up." Jenny pushes a hand through her hair. "Seriously, Donnie, I don't know what's going on with you, but this whole ignoring me thing is —_ holy shit._" Her eyes flick over him, then widen as her mouth drops open. She recovers almost immediately, but two spots of color dance high on her cheeks. "Bad timing?"

"What?" he asks, still sleep-fuzzed. When he follows her gaze, he finds April curled into his side, one hand hooked around the leather straps crossing his chest.

Donnie speaks seven languages and still doesn't have a word for the dread that wakes in his gut when his ex-girlfriend sees the love of his life snoring in his arms. Within seconds, he's more awake than he wants to be, and trying to untangle himself from the knot April and his blanket have wound around him. Even asleep, April is no help; when he tries to peel her fingers off his straps, she huffs and curls her fingers tighter, murmuring something he doesn't catch.

There's a muffled explosion of what might be laughter from his laptop, and Donnie glares at Jenny, who looks back innocently. Only the gleam in her eyes gives her away. Donnie knows all too well what that gleam means, and the dread in his gut blossoms into outright fear.

"Atta boy, Donnie," says Jenny, her widest shit-stirring smile splitting open her face.

"Two minutes," he whispers, finally managing to slip out of April's grip. Explaining April in his bed to Jenny will be just one more indignity in a life full to brimming with them. "Two minutes, and I'll call you back from the lab."

Jenny rolls her eyes as she nods, still grinning, and signs off without another word.

Getting out of bed takes longer than two minutes. The moment he swings his legs off his futon and tries to stand, hot pain tracks up from the soles of his feet, and the deep gouges in his thighs strain their stitches. He inhales, eyes closed as he prepares himself, and stands up slowly.

He's been hurt worse before — Slash comes to mind immediately, with the familiar shiver of fear — but the cuts in his feet are the kind of low-grade misery that will linger for weeks. He'll be useless until then, and the realization carries another, darker thought with it: that the attack might not have been meant to kill him and Casey, but disable them.

But for what? He shudders, and hears the wind again, cold enough to drive away the last of April's warmth.

_It eats. That's what it does. _

"Donnie?"

He glances down to find April blinking sleepily at him from his futon. She pushes her hair out of her face and smiles. If only he could freeze this moment, set it in glass and amber, to bring out whenever the weight on his back gets too heavy: April's smile, her hair on his pillows, the hollow in the mattress where his body rested next to hers for a few hours.

"Where're you going?" she asks through a yawn.

Donnie swallows. There's nothing he wants more than to crawl back into bed with April, where the worst he has to worry about is not staring too long, but — no.

_Get it together_, he tells himself, as he smiles back at her. He hopes his smile looks more reassuring than it feels. _She stayed because she felt bad. Don't make it more than it is. _

A second, plaintive voice speaks up: _but what if —?_ He shuts it down, stamps on its neck, and waits until the echoes fade before he answers April.

"Jenny called — I'm going to go talk to her in the lab."

April stretches with a grimace and a nod. Her shirt rides up, ever so slightly, and Donnie looks away from the pale strip of skin exposed by her movement. "Okay. Tell her I said hi." She rolls onto her belly and pillows her head on her arms. "Can I stay here?"

"Of course! Uh, yes. Sure. Sleep well. Yes." _Shut up,_ he yells silently to himself, _just shut up and _go.

April's only response is a sleepy sigh and another smile as she nestles deeper into his bed. The two minutes Donnie promised Jenny are long up, but he stares, willing his aching feet to move, until April is asleep again.

* * *

><p>The call barely connects before Jenny's face fills the screen. Donnie tries not to look at the time, but the knowledge that he's only gotten three hours of sleep fills him with deep, hopeless resignation.<p>

"You did it!" Jenny squeals, without preamble. "Donnie! You — oh my _god_, I'm so — you are completely forgiven for ignoring me. Completely." She beams at him, and the urge to cradle his head in his hands nearly overwhelms him. He's too tired to tell Jenny she's got the wrong end of the stick, but his expression — or lack of one — is enough of a response. Her grin melts away like butter in a hot pan.

"Are you _kidding_ me? She's — oh for fuck's sake, Donnie, you can't let her just play around like that!" He hears a muffled thud as Jenny slaps her desk.

"Hey!" he snaps. "It's not — it's not like that, okay? I asked her to stay. She's not —" He closes his eyes as Jenny throws up her hands.

"She's not _what_, Donnie?" Jenny stares at him, her face hard with anger and — loyalty?

Maybe it shouldn't, but it still amazes him that people beside his family can care about him — that people can be more than neutral, that they can defend him and love him, even when he's not offering anything for their direct benefit.

"It's been a…hard month," he says, lamely. Jenny's brows pucker together, and she makes an impatient _hurry-up_ gesture with both hands.

Donnie swallows. Jenny doesn't know, because he couldn't be bothered to tell her. The roof, Rahzar, Karai, the door to April's room slamming shut. Was that just a few hours ago?

His head starts to ache, and a long shriek of wind slips through him, full of icy teeth.

"What happened to you, Donnie?"

He lets out a bleak laugh. Telling it means reliving it, every frantic, lonely moment. The blood on his hands, the teeth in his skin.

"April — April fell, Jenny," he begins, his voice fraying like old thread.

"My god," Jenny breathes, an hour later, when Donnie finishes talking. His throat aches, and what started out as sleepiness has bled into exhaustion. But the tale is told, and Jenny's hostility is gone. That's something, right? Now they can talk about anything other than myths come to life and how he _failed_ and -

"Did you say the White Boar?" Jenny asks.

Donnie nods, leaning his chin on his hand. "Yeah, some old fairy tale Splinter told us when we were kids. Karai's just using it to get under Leo's skin. What a mess." He sighs, almost missing the way Jenny twitches, what little color she has in her cheeks draining away. "What is it?"

She licks her lips and cuts her eyes away from his. Donnie groans; Jenny's tells are so obvious to him now that it's possible he knows what she's going to say before she does.

Right on cue, she says "Stephen had a dream," and Donnie groans again, even louder.

"Oh, good," he snaps. "Because that's just what I want to hear about, your _psychic husband's dreams_." He regrets what he said as soon as it leaves his mouth, and Jenny's hurt look only twists the knife. "I'm — I'm sorry," he says. "But honestly, Jenny, after the night I just had? I don't want to hear about dreams. I want to be _asleep._" _Asleep with April, _he thinks, and flushes.

"Donnie, this is — just listen, okay? I know you hate this stuff but…" Jenny rubs her mouth. "I think it might be important."

He slumps down in his chair, wincing as one of the gouges pulls at its stitches, and nods. Easier to get it over with now.

"He, uh, he dreamed of New York." Jenny rubs her mouth again, going even paler as she speaks. "And there was this pig, walking through the streets. This huge, white pig."

The tips of Donnie's fingers go cold. He ignores them, focusing on Jenny's voice.

"And uh, then it stopped, and started rooting, like it was trying to dig something up. It pulled the street apart and it kept digging and digging until it —" She pauses, steadying herself. "I swear to God, Donnie, I thought this was just some random weird dream, but after what you just said…oh my god."

"Jenny, tell me," he says, hating himself for always needing to _know_. He should be telling her to stop talking, like he does every other time she tells him about one of Stephen's dreams, but his damned curiosity won't be satisfied until he hears the rest. The chill creeps up his hands, through his wrists.

"It found a nest," she says, her voice small. "And there were, there were turtles in the nest."

_Your brothers are far away. So very far away. _

"And a rat," Jenny says.

_Let me show you just how far away your family is._

"Stop it," Donnie says, but Jenny doesn't listen as she forces out the last few words.

"And the pig — it ate them. It ate all of them except one."

"Stop it!" he yells, and smashes his fist down on the table. "It's nothing, Jenny, it's just a stupid dream."

_Who am I trying to convince? _

"Stephen's never wrong," she whispers, not meeting his eyes. "Not when he dreams like this. And it's too close — rats, turtles, the pig? And what the pig _did_?" Jenny lifts her head, jaw set. "I've heard the story too, Donnie. And weirder things have happened to you."

_It eats. That's what the White Boar does, it eats, says Karai, reaching for Leo. _

Donnie shakes his head, pushing the memory away. "I know you believe," he says, too tired to hide his disdain. "But I don't. I'm not going to jump just because Stephen had a dream that matches up with some old story. It's not real, Jenny. It's just one of Karai's tricks."

_You don't really believe that, do you, Donnie? _asks the plaintive voice from earlier. _Part of you is starting to wonder if there could be truth in that old story_._ And that scares you. An enemy this powerful, that can get into your head and play around with what it finds? It's your worst nightmare._

Without thinking, he moves his hand to his belt, where the tooth is tucked into a pouch. The point is sharp enough to have already worn away the leather. He winces as it catches at his skin. There's hunger in it yet, a mystery he has to solve. And he will, because that's what he does.

"Donnie —"

He waves her words away. "No. I'm sorry, but it's not rational."

"April's powers are gone, Donnie, and Karai is back. Nothing about this is _rational_. I know you don't want to consider it, but maybe —"

"No! I don't need this! The White Boar is a _story_!" Donnie blazes, exhaustion pushing him out of frustration and into anger. What he needs twelve more hours of sleep, not guesswork and myth. He leans forward and jabs a finger at the screen; on her end, Jenny jerks backward. "Normally I'd appreciate you playing Devil's Advocate, but not today. I'm not going to waste my time on a stupid fairy tale, not when we have actual enemies to worry about. I have the tooth, and I'll track down however those things were made, and then we'll stop them. It's what we always do."

"The dream —"

"Was just a _dream_, Jenny, and I thought you'd be smart enough to recognize that."

Jenny opens her mouth, too shocked to even splutter, and signs off without another word.

* * *

><p>Donnie debates the merits of apologizing via email versus trying to get Jenny back on Skype long enough to hear the rest of the family stir awake. The bizarre architecture in the lair means all sound is funneled toward the lab, so Donnie hears Casey yell, Raph yelling back, and Mikey hollering at them both from the kitchen. And he hears the doors to his room and Leo's open at the same time, and April and Leo murmur at each other as they walk away.<p>

What does Leo think of April creeping out of Donnie's room? Did she try to sneak out, like the few hours they slept curled around each other were something to be ashamed of?

_No, _says the new voice, the one he fights so hard against. _She wouldn't. She's not ashamed of you, she —_

The lab door creaks open, and the smell of coffee hits his nose, thick and bitter and blessedly hot.

"Hey, you," says April, her voice still sleep-rough. "Figured you'd need coffee after talking to Jenny."

Donnie huffs, smiling in spite of the regret moving through him. April's here. She forgave him. She stayed with him. Oh, at least there's one good thing that came out of last night. "You figured right." Before he can turn around to face April, a message pops up on his screen. It has to be Jenny, ready to ream him out for being an ass, and he's ready to let her.

_Hello, Donatello, _says the message. _Do you hear the wind blow?_

He blinks. There's no sender attached to the message, no name, no icon, just eight black words floating on a white background. As he stares at the screen, another message pops up.

_Did you ever wonder what the Kraang did to April when they took her, that last time? _

_She said she was fine, she said they just made her sleep, and you believed her. _

_Oh, Donatello. _

_You have always suffered from an overabundance of hope._

April's footsteps slow down behind him, and she calls his name, but Donnie can't look away from the screen. His heart no longer seems to be beating. Her voice is drowned out by the high, laughing song of the wind.

_Did you ever consider that they may have given her an expiration date? _

"No," Donnie chokes out, just before a tiny_ chink_ echoes behind him. He spins around in time to watch the second mug of coffee tumble out of April's limp hand, and fall to the floor without breaking.

Donnie is loyal, Donnie is smart, Donnie is fast and brave and strong, and none of that gets him out of his chair before April's eyes flicker, and whatever makes her _April_, that clever light, that subtle fierceness, drains out of her gaze.

She falls slowly, gracefully, all the lines of her body breaking, and this is — this is not right, this is a joke —

This is hell.

Donnie catches her before her head hits the ground. He saves her from that, cradles her neck in the crook of his elbow and pulls her against his plastron. All his prohibitions against touch are forgotten; he touches her face, her neck, her hands, and doesn't realize he's calling her name until the echoes ricochet off the walls and back down to him.

And then, he realizes, he's not calling her name so much as he's begging.

"April, April, oh god, April, come on, look at me." He takes her chin in his hand and turns her face up to his, stroking her cheek with his thumb, trying to meet her eyes. "Please, don't — please, just look at me."

Her eyes are open, their blue as bright as always, but she won't look at him. She can't look at him.

When he touches her throat, her skin is cool under his fingers, and that's even worse than how the rhythm of her pulse has stopped. April can't be cool. She was warm an hour ago, in his bed, warm enough for them both, and breathing, and now she's not, now she isn't moving, now she's more like a bundle of sticks in his arms than a person, fragile and thin and _cold, _how can April be _cold_?

"No!" He's screaming now, and April is still not looking at him. "April, please — April!"

The wind roars.

April is —

"No," he says, drawing her closer, holding her so tightly it hurts his arms, but April doesn't say anything. The last thing she said was his name, and now her mouth hangs open, an empty room in an abandoned house, because she is…_not. _April is undone.

A distant, irrelevant part of him wonders why no one has heard his cries, why no one has come to see what's gone wrong in the lab, what could make their brother scream this way.

It doesn't matter. If Donnie couldn't stop this, what could the others do?

Donnie holds April until even the wind in his head goes quiet, and he's left alone, his mind a perfect blank. She's not waking up, she's not coming back, and he doesn't know what to do. He has nothing. So he stays where he is, beyond tears, and watches April's face until a soft sigh intrudes.

When he looks up, a woman smiles down at him. A beautiful woman, with a gentle mouth and kind eyes, dressed all in white. When she speaks, her voice is tender as a mother's.

"You never planned for this, did you, my brave Donatello?" The woman's smile widens, teeth sharp as a winter wind. "You never once thought you would have to outlive her."


	2. Interlude: Westron Wynde, Part Two

_Humans. _

_The Boar remembers them, just as it remembers mist rising over a lake at dawn, as it remembers running, chill air in its nostrils, as it remembers the dew-stricken morning as it ran, and ran, the only sounds its hoofbeats and the baying of the hounds behind it. _

_It remembers the spear in its flank._

_Humans. _

_Their skin pinked by the cold, air steaming in front of their mouths. The hounds held, uncertain, whining — they knew the look in the boar's eyes, even if the humans commanding them did not. The hounds knew. The hounds always knew. _

_When the Boar — still just a boar, not a god, just a mute starving beast, lost in winter — turned, the hounds broke away, howling and threading through the legs of the horses. One human, caught off balance, fell to the snow with an abrupt squawk. So clumsy, so slow in his heavy furs. He rose to his knees, shouting at the hounds and his horse and the sky, wiping blood from under his nose as his companions laughed. _

_Humans. _

_They smelled like shit and woodfires, old meat covered in rank spices, and the last breaths of the creatures whose furs they wore. Filthy humans, missing teeth, missing eyes or fingers. They thought the hunt belonged to them by right. They had forgotten it was a game: the eater, and the eaten. _

_The boar had not fed in days. The storms of winter had kept its hunger banked low, embers instead of flame, but seeing the blood on the snow, feeling the spear in its side, the boar turned its face to the man struggling up out of the snow._

_It roared. _

_And its hunger _woke_. _

_A god was born from ice and mud, hunger and pain. And its eyes first fell on those who thought themselves safe, whose bowels turned to water when the roar broke against them, and filled them to brimming. _

_Humans. _

_They rode until the horses fell, and then they ran in their stinking furs, throats gone raw with screaming. The Boar thinks they might be running still, if it had not caught them all, men and horses and hounds, and used them up. _

_Well. The horses and hounds it used, and is still using now, its dream-and-mud-bred servants. _

_And the humans? _

_In the dead of winter, any mouthful is a meal._

* * *

><p><em>You never planned that she would die first, did you? <em>

The question is so rhetorical it can only be an insult, and that is precisely how the Boar means it.

Of course Donatello never planned for that possibility. He is the one with plans inside of plans, one clever trick nestled within another. Even in the darkest, the most hopeless of moments, there has always been a half-formed idea ready to be brought to the forge and fired into steel. Whatever the battle, Donatello believed he would always be able to get his family out alive.

Always.

Donatello has no one to blame for the ruin of his hopes but himself. He said he did not believe, and the Boar cannot accept such defiance. And so it came, with a message written in the frail lines of this human's body.

In the _illusion_ of the human's body. The Boar savors terror, like blood upon the snow, and while the human's soundless, creeping death was sweet to watch — sweeter still to watch Donatello's grief rise and bloom — it has larger, colder plans for her: a true death to make ghosts flee their stone beds.

Even so, it gives the Boar nothing short of _joy_ to watch him cradle the empty body in his arms, his face slack with shock as he tries to wake her. And watching the dawning realization in his eyes is_pleasure, _sweet and warm, spreading like the roots of a weed — pleasure the Boar has not felt in ever so many years.

This pleasure is tempered by the knowledge that Donatello was marked by the Other long before the Boar knew he lived. If only, if only the Boar had _known_ such a creature existed! What happy confluence raised Donatello from a mute beast, what alchemy transmuted bits of flesh and bone into this chimaera? More than that noxious fluid is at work here. Oh, the Boar is displeased, the Boar is _furious_, that Donatello is not his. It has contented itself with unworthy servants for too long, their flesh not fit for eating when they have outlived what little use it can find for them.

Human servants are the easiest to find, to bend and warp as the Boar sees fit, but they can only bear its power for so long. In the end, they are no different than that last hunt, small stinking creatures, weaker than dragonflies in winter.

Karai had potential, for all that she is human, torn between the ash-blackened hearts of her fathers. The Boar offered her satisfaction, the contentment of the sharpest blade, the truest arrow. All it asked was her heart. What use did the lost little girl have for that?

And yet, she resists. And she will pay for that resistance, oh, yes, she will pay, and the Boar must swallow as its mouth waters. She will pay, this night she will _pay. _The Boar will take what it is owed.

It is a god. It deserves the faithful. It deserves _power_. Donatello, a monster to look at, has power coiled rich and salty in his muscles. A puzzlement to find such power and defiance here, in the murky, silty sewers beneath the city, but the Boar has found power in strange places before.

The Boar remembers, with the red-soaked vision that serves as its memory, a nun, dust on her feet and scars on her hands, who dared to defy it as openly as Donatello. She had been the Other's champion then, its hoof print as clear to the Boar as if she had wore it on her skin. And like Donatello, she had refused to _believe._ What an ugly woman she had been, harder to look at than the creature sobbing his dry grief at the Boar's feet. But those scarred hands had held faith, enough to turn the Boar's stomach to water, and she had driven the Boar and its servants from her village with nothing more than a few shouted words of Latin and that damned _faith._

It did not matter that her faith had nothing to do with the Boar; what mattered was the faith itself, the act of fording a river and trusting that one would not be alone steering against the current.

The Boar chose to retreat and wait, counting out the thin, onion-skin years of the nun's life until she lay in her cot, struggling for breath. Then it broke her, with visions of the blood-fed fires.

She died, blind and screaming. Then the Boar fed upon her people in a meal that lasted weeks, and left her bitter bones to fall to dust in the center of her empty village.

It hungers too much to wait until Donatello dies. The city teems with life, each tiny fear and lust a morsel meant for the Boar's tongue, and so it must break him now before it makes a meal of the lives walking the streets above.

Such a pity, to break this marvelous creature. With that mind, and the discipline the rat-father instilled in him, Donatello is a jewel, lacking only the proper setting.

Perhaps the Boar may sway him.

Perhaps Donatello will be more receptive to _satisfaction. _

What an odd concept, satisfaction. In all its long centuries spent cycling through sleep and starvation, the Boar has never known satisfaction. It is sated for a time after feeding, and only then can it rest. When it wakes, it hungers. There is no end. There is no final cure for its condition, and even if there were, the Boar would not accept it. What power it has, it has raised from its hunger. Without hunger, the Boar is — nothing. Simply a white pig with gleaming tusks and red, runny eyes.

Hunger is what makes it a god.

So the Boar does not understand satisfaction, does not _wish_ to understand it, though it understands that the lure of satisfaction has its attractions for those lesser creatures. Never once has the offer been refused — not in the end. Not after the Boar showed them all that they could see. They all fall as prey, and the game is the Boar's to win, over and over.

The Other has not been seen in an age. It can still lay its mark upon its chosen champion, but it is weak, and cannot help them. Donatello is alone, chosen unwillingly for a task he cannot possibly accomplish. If the Boar felt pity, it would feel it now, to watch the slow truth crawl into Donatello's head. Whatever comes next, he will never forget what the human looks like when her life has been snuffed out, when all that is _her_ is washed away and her body is as blameless as dry leaves.

Donatello will never recover, will possibly never feel joy again — but he will want satisfaction, and the Boar can offer him that much.

"Do you hear the wind blow, Donatello?"

Yes. _Yes_. Of course he does. The wind has not stopped, not for a second. It will never end. Until this world shudders through its last breath, Donatello will hear the wind, and see her face.

The Boar crouches down in front of him in a whisper of silk. It lays a gentle hand on his wrist, stroking along the line of muscle. He is so _strong_, this one; the Boar can taste it in the ruined stutter of his pulse. When Donatello tries to pull away, a thick, grinding moan pouring out of him, the Boar squeezes his wrist. "Do you?"

"Yes," he whispers, not taking his eyes off the human's face. "I hear it." He pulls his hand away, and the Boar lets him. It even smiles at him, but Donatello does not see. He just stares at the human, and the Boar finally spares her a glance.

It is unimpressed. There have been prizes among humanity, near-worthy adversaries whose wills made the mountains look like piles of dust, but this human is not one of them. All that is special in her was _made_, not _born_.

The Boar wishes it had killed her in truth, rather than in image alone, for it can smell her soul, and she is not even worth the effort it would take to break her in its teeth. Oh, but the Boar knows that the light and spice that once flavored humanity's souls are fading. No more will it feast as it did in its youth.

At least, it muses, hooking a finger under Donatello's chin and forcing him to meet its eyes, there is is quantity to make up for quality. And it still has Karai's punishment to enjoy, once its work here is done. The offer must be made.

"Have you ever wondered, my dear, my brave Donatello," it says, "what you would have become, had she not taken up so much of you?"

"So much —" Donatello draws the body closer, as if he can somehow force meaning back into cold flesh when all hope is gone. "No," he hisses, shrinking away from the Boar, mouth curling. "You — you killed her. Killed her. Why? _Why?"_

The last word is a cry, the echoes throwing themselves against the walls like trapped birds. His tearless grief is a living thing of teeth and fury, rising to scourge the Boar's glamours — and the body in his arms flickers, sliding out of existence for an instant before the Boar can replenish the spell.

_He broke the glamour_, the Boar thinks, and for the first time in memory, it feels astonishment. The sensation fades in a hot rush of fury. How dare he resist?

"Oh god —" Donatello shakes his head, staring unblinking at the body in his arms. Then, with slow, gentle care, as if even this glamour were precious, he stands, and lets the body slide from his arms. The loss pains him; were he any weaker, he would not be able to let the glamour go. She has so much _weight_ in that head of his, a whetstone tied to his back.

As soon as it touches the floor, the glamour scatters like fireflies. The spell needed Donatello's belief to sustain it as much as the warhounds need Karai's breath to go about their work.

Shock keeps Donatello from reacting for a few fragile seconds. The Boar knows it should use this time to counterattack and cut Donatello off from his defenses — but it moves too late.

"April…is…" Donatello's hands clench into fists, heavy as stone, heavy as faith. Oh, this is terrible, this is _calamity_. He believes, but not in the Boar. He believes in what he _loves._

Before Donatello can inhale to howl, or do more than stare at the fading light, the Boar summons a new spell — not a glamour, not this time. For this, it needs a possible truth, and a little wind.

Then the offer can be made.

It feels the moment Donatello hears the wind rise. For all that his flesh is bitter, as he slips under, his terror is sweet, sweet as nectar on the tip of the Boar's tongue.

* * *

><p><em>There's more color than blood splashed across the courtyard this time: blue and orange and red, flashes of green, moving too quickly to truly see. <em>

_And fire, fire against the stone. True fire, and then the blaze of a woman's hair where it tumbles out of her black hood as she runs screaming across the battlefield, drawing a __wakizashi__ from a sheath at her side. _

_Last night, Donnie saw her twisted in a pool of her own blood, and again his chest aches when he sees her face. She's just as much a stranger as before, old before her time and ugly with rage, but something — something —_

_She's screaming a name, her face hard as weathered stone, eyes bloodshot and spitting tears. _

_"Karai, I'm here! You want to finish the set? Come and get me!" _

No, _Donnie tries to scream, and throws out both arms to try and catch the woman as she sprints past. He misses, and she keeps running, screaming Karai's name without end. _

_And Karai rises beside a slumped and broken body, blue scraps fluttering from her fist. _

_She is as grey as the stone beneath her feet, her hair cropped to a thin shadow on her scalp. She faces the woman, the combatants between them making way as Karai draws her own wakizashi and beckons the woman on. _

_The fight is over in two moves: the woman doesn't get a single blow in, too blinded by rage, before Karai's blade slashes through the air and the woman's vest opens, pale freckled skin bared to the light. Then Karai's blade moves again, and the woman's skin is lost to red ruin. _

_Donnie wants to cry out, but his mouth is sealed, and all he can do is watch as the red-haired woman falls to her knees, her wakizashi tumbling from loose fingers as she tries to staunch the flow of blood. Karai kicks her in the gut, and the woman slams to the ground, writhing as Karai crouches over her. _

_"No!" _

_Raph's voice, saying what Donnie can't. His brother bursts out through a clutch of Foot ninja as they grapple with a group of unarmored fighters, roaring, faded mask tails fluttering as he moves. He looks so old, his shell cracked and leaking under a battered jacket, but Donnie's never seen Raph run so fast, or his brother's face so desperate. _

_The woman turns her head, blood already leaking from her mouth, and stretches out her hand. Her face is softened by terror, all the hard lines gone. She was pretty once, before grief ruined her, but now she only looks young and lost. _

Help is so very far away_, whispers the song of the wind._

_The woman mouths Raph's name, straining against Karai's weight on her chest, but Raph stumbles over a loose stone and goes down, still roaring. He doesn't get up again, but squirms on his stomach, reaching for the woman with a beaten, bloody hand. _

_Karai's blade catches the light as she raises it over her head, and this time, Donnie does scream, unheard, as she stabs the woman through the heart, over and over, until the wakizashi breaks in half._

_Then Karai turns to Raph, and smiles. _

* * *

><p>None have resisted past the second seeing. The Boar confronts them with the worst of their possible truths, and they crumble. Some go mad. Some never wake from the un-dreams. And some decide to serve, so the nightmares can be averted.<p>

The Boar lets Donatello rise slowly from the courtyard. In his dull and unfocused gaze, it sees the brother fall, and the woman die by Karai's hand, teeth gritted as the blade travels through her to meet the stone under her back. It tastes her horror, her resignation, it tastes the red brother's desperation, and the futility of it all is spice upon spice.

What a hearty dish this family makes! And what the Boar cannot eat, it can still enjoy, Donatello's grief compounding as he sees how hopeless his situation is.

_Savor later,_ it instructs itself. _Make the offer. _

"I know you think me cruel, my brave boy," says the Boar, in its most soothing voice. It lays its hand on Donatello's wrist again, stroking his skin, losing itself in the sensations. Oh, he is not merely powerful, this one, he is _singular_, his only flaw the human taint riding his bones. That will be easy enough to remove.

"Cruel," says Donatello, his voice breaking. He clenches his hands, over and over, not blinking at all.

"I am not," the Boar says. It lets its voice slide into a wheedle, and it even smiles at Donatello with its wretched human mask, though he does not look up to see it. "Consider this a lesson, a message, a test, however it pleases you, dear boy. But do not think me cruel."

Donatello looks up. He is weary. He is haunted, full of ghosts with voices like fire.

He is ready for the offer.

"I am the kinder choice," the Boar purrs, resting its thumb against Donatello's pulse. It should keep its distance, this the Boar knows, but the promise in Donatello's veins cannot be resisted. And why deny itself any pleasure? It is a god. It has no need for patience.

"What you saw would have come to pass but for me and my influence. Your brothers would die. Your master would die. Everything you hold in that warm heart of yours would wither and die, and you would see it all, but for me."

"You…" Donatello shudders, and the Boar pushes, breaking through the last of his mind's defenses to present him with one final image: the brothers, scarred, doomed, full of cold age, clothing themselves in battle-worn scraps.

This, the Boar knows, is what will break him. Barely a flicker of power, and the brothers' faces crumple, eyes flat and useless, and are worn away like stone.

Donatello sags, the weight of the vision being poured into him too heavy to bear. The Boar does not bother with conjuring images of death, oh, no, not this time. Not this time, all it needs is their voices.

_Donnie, Donnie, help —_

_We need you —_

_Donnie, I'm —_

_Now, _thinks the Boar, full of joy, and hungry, ever so _hungry: _joy for Donatello's surrender, hunger for the meal to come. It leans toward Donatello, its mouth at his ear. The offer is simple: _come with me, and they will live. One life for three, and all I ask is your heart. _

Donatello jerks away with his teeth bared. The Boar can only wonder at him as the vision-thread snaps in half, and his mind closes itself against the Boar's power. It could worry and gnaw a new entrance, but before it can begin, it meets Donatello's eyes.

His _white_ eyes, narrowed in fury, and for a second, for an age, there is no room in the Boar for anything but unease. And then — such effrontery! Such gall, bitter as wormwood — Donatello turns his back on the Boar, a stone door between its mind and his.

The Boar could kill him, and it wants to, oh, it would so _love_ to see him split open, red from neck to navel, but it controls itself. So Donatello withstood the second seeing; what of it? He is the first to do so, but he will still snap like a fistfuls of twigs when the Boar comes again.

And oh, it shall come, with horrors fresh and bloody, with the offer thick in its mouth, and it will open him if he dares such resistance again. The offer shall be made; it will have him, or he shall bleed.

It is a god. He is still nothing but a beast. There is no question in its mind that the offer will be taken. The offer is always taken, in the end.

And yet, what the Boar hears in the roar of Donatello's pulse as it fades away sends another thread of unease through its substance.

Donatello believes — not in the Boar, but that he will kill it.

* * *

><p><em>In the darkness, in the absence of air, the Black Bull stirs in its sleep. It is a young god, and it sleeps so soundly that it barely hears the call echo across the empty spaces between the world and its resting place. A song of grief, a song of rage, song without end, blessed be the voice that sings it. <em>

_The Bull wakes to its champion's voice. _

_The White Boar — cursed be its hooves, cursed be its tusks, may its flesh rot upon its bones, may it wander without rest or kindness until the end of all days — has begun the game anew, and stands ready to greet the Bull with fresh horrors. It has gathered unto itself a cohort of monsters, living and dead, and waits the Bull's reply. _

_The Bull wishes for sleep. For peace. Youth is no cure for exhaustion, not even for the Bull, so it rises from its bower and shakes its heavy head. _

_A city, this time, is the prize. The Bull does not sigh, but it lets its weary head hang low, and allows its eyes to close. So many tiny lives, fragile as light through glass, and all of them must be saved. _

_The Bull already knows it will not be able to save them all. It has not yet recovered from the last game, an untold age before. It _lost_ that game; two cities were ground to rubble, and the Boar roared as it feasted. Roared, and roared, its triumph making a mockery of laughter. _

_So many lives. _

_The Bull is tired. It can barely lift its head once more. The champion has been chosen; what else is there for the Bull to do? It cannot enter the world to guide the champion, it is yet too weak. It can give no help, no aid, no —_

_The Bull does not smile, but its head, crowned by horns older than words, grows light. Ah, but there is one thing it can do, that the Boar cannot. _

_It can _adapt_. _

_Two, after all, is greater than one, and in a game with no rules, who is to stop the Bull from choosing again? _

_It calls across the divide, a low song, a song of summons, and feels the tender brush of a mortal mind against its own. _

_Wake, calls the Bull, wake, wake. I name you both Champion. _

_Together you will be mighty._

_Be not blind. Be not mute._

_Be not afraid. _

_Be not alone. _

* * *

><p>April opens her eyes. She has to squint to focus in the dark room, but she can see Donnie slip inside his room and shut the door. He leans against it, eyes too wide, and simply stares at her. Stares, and stares, like he's afraid she'll disappear if he blinks.<p>

"Donnie?" She sits up, still half-asleep, and reaches out to him like a little girl. "Is everything okay?" A joke about Jenny dies on the back of her tongue as a wave of — grief? Longing? Disbelief? Something between all three, as murky as the Hudson after a hard rain — reaches her.

Donnie dredges up a smile. A horrible, blank smile, a smile that's as much a lie as what he says next.

"Everything's fine," he says. "Fine."

She tosses the blanket away and starts to swing out of bed, her arms already full of him, ready to take the weight of whatever's in his head.

_Oh, god_, she thinks, as that murky feeling touches her mind again, edged with keen, brutal ice._The Boar —_

"Donnie, what happened? Let me —"

Before she stands up, he shakes his head, and shoves himself back against the door as if it's the only thing holding him up. "No, I'm sorry — I just —" His voice fails, and he shakes his head again. "Just…wait, please?"

Donnie never asks for much. April nods, as much as it burns in her to not go to him, to not share this weight. They're partners, that's what they do — but she stays where she is, fists clenched at her side.

He stares at her for a long time, and April lets him.


	3. Interlude: Blood Mortar

**A/N:** This takes place a few hours after the end of Walking Wounded, and overlaps slightly with the events in Interlude: Westron Wynde.

Miyamoto Usagi, Genn, Tomoe Ame, and Chizu are all characters in Stan Sakai's fantastic _Usagi Yojimbo_ comics.

Mikey's best line and also the Tiger Claw vs. Usagi headcanon belong to hotmilkytea 3

* * *

><p>When Raph wakes, it's to a stiff neck and a damp, warm spot on his shoulder, where Casey's mouth is almost, but not quite, pressed against his skin. He stretches slowly, careful not to wake Casey, and cracks his neck twice before looking around. As his eyes adjust to the dark, the common room shifts silently, the familiar shapes of the TV and couches changing, flowing, growing —<p>

Raph squints, caught in the middle of a stretch with his arms over his head. There's something at the far edge of his vision, down the hall, near the door of the lab. In the dim light spilling out of the kitchen like an afterthought, Raph can just make out the humped, heavy shape. It shifts — or does it? It looks like it's breathing, though Raph is too far away to be sure. It could be anything.

_It's just trash_, he tells himself, still half-asleep. _A pile of junk Donnie left laying around. Stuff even he couldn't fix. It's just —_

It moves, rising up on four legs, steam curling off its sides, and turns its head toward him. A dull red eye travels the outline of the room, slowly, slowly, not missing a single corner, and Raph knows it'll see him and Casey soon enough. The eye will fall on him.

He's not scared. What he is, what he feels, he doesn't have a word for. His brothers would be able to name this surge within him, but he can't. Raph can barely handle the words _I'm sorry_; there's no way he'd be able to explain the hollowing in his chest, or the ringing in his ears, like the echo of hoofbeats.

The eye reaches him, and lingers.

Raph curls closer to Casey, one hand inching toward Casey's. An anchor. Raph needs an anchor, or a direction to point his internal compass in. He can't orient himself against that feeling rising in him, the fascinated, repulsed draw, the anticipation of what will happen next.

_Don't let it see Casey_, warns a voice that sounds like his own, and Raph listens, putting himself in between Casey and the eye as much as he can. Casey grumbles in his sleep and buries his head in one of the cushions, then goes still and quiet again.

The eye lingers for a few seconds, long enough for Raph to know notice has been taken, and then it disappears. Not a blink, just _gone_, without a noise or sign to prove it had been there to begin with. The shape vanishes as well, soundlessly, so abruptly it hurts Raph's eyes.

He still isn't scared, but he feels — he feels like he's been found wanting. He hadn't measured up. He —

Raph yawns. He's so tired his vision pulses and wavers, turning shadows into strange, twisted shapes. _Mind's playing tricks on me, _he thinks, yawning again, the unnameable feeling fading out of him as he slips toward sleep again.

* * *

><p>Mikey wakes Raph up for good a few hours later, when he comes tumbling back into the lair with an enormous Ikea bag slung over each shoulder.<p>

"Dude," Raph snaps, still a little groggy. "Can you be _any_ louder?"

"Probably!" Mikey stage-whispers, but he sets the bags down quietly enough. He nods at Casey. "How's he doin'?"

Raph turns his head to look over his shoulder at Casey. He holds down a snort when he sees the huge drool mark he left on Casey's t-shirt, and can't see anything to immediately worry about. Casey's breathing is smooth and even, his mouth slack, his color good. When he presses the back of his hand to Casey's forehead, Casey groans and bats his hand away, but not before Raph can feel the healthy warmth radiating off Casey's skin.

"He's good," Raph tells Mikey, not taking his eyes off Casey. He's allowed to stare a little after the night they all had, and Mikey can go screw himself if he thinks it's lame or cute. At least he's not_kissing_ Casey in front of Mikey.

"Think he'll want some brekky-brek?" Mikey toes one of the bags. It crinkles invitingly, and sends a subtle hint of yeast and sugar toward Raph. He breathes in deep — cinnamon rolls, maybe, and still warm too — and glances again at Casey. If there really are fresh cinnamon rolls in the bag, Casey will kill him for not waking him up, but Casey will kill Raph _twice_ for waking him up when he's feeling shitty.

"Nah," says Raph. "Let him sleep." His hand twitches toward Casey, to smooth his hair, to rub his back. Raph wants to take care of Casey, but he doesn't want to mess up. He's not good at taking care of people. Casey's tougher than most, and more patient, but that's all the more reason for Raph to be careful.

He settles for pulling the blanket higher, almost to Casey's chin. The lair gets cold in the morning, no matter how many space heaters they have running, and Casey makes a sleepy, grateful noise that sounds almost like Raph's name.

"No reason for us not to eat." Mikey, probably on purpose, is staring at whatever's inside the bags, and avoiding Raph's gaze. "You should see the stuff I brought back, we're good for like, a week."

"Went to see Team AARP?" Raph asks as he stands up and walks toward Mikey. As he gets closer, he thinks he can smell pasta sauce, and his tongue clenches.

Mikey nods and picks up the bags, holding one out to Raph. "Yep. Couldn't sleep. Needed to get out for a little while, you know? So I figured I'd go check on Sandra and company."

Raph thinks it's weird with a side of bizarre that Mikey has a whole army of grannies that he hangs out with, but he can't argue with the way the grannies collectively decided to feed Mikey's entire family. Especially not when he _knows_ he's smelling fresh cinnamon rolls.

"Did they make this all for you, or do they just have this much food laying around?" Raph asks as they reach the kitchen. "Jeez, this thing weighs a ton."

Mikey is already elbows-deep in the bag. "Hey, dude, don't complain, they don't _have_ to cook for us." He squeals, delighted, as he pulls out a long, flat Tupperware container, marked by a note that says _FOR MY MIKEY_. "Oh, Rosa, my girl, _thank you_." He unsnaps the lid and breathes in, groaning with delight.

Raph doesn't bother asking what's in the Tupperware. Only three things can get Mikey to react like that: Antonio's pizza, Murakami's pizza gyoza, or Rosa's lasagna. He pulls the bag away from Mikey, hoping that Rosa sent a second batch, because Mikey's not going to let anyone else touch the one in his arms.

Sure enough, there's a second Tupperware container nestled at the bottom of the bag, under the boxes of tea for Splinter and the bags of cold-press coffee for Donnie, with a Post-It on top that says _FOR NOT MIKEY_.

Yeah, it's weird that Mikey hangs out with grannies, but if anyone looks at them wrong, they'll have Raph to deal with too.

The next few minutes are taken up with sorting the food, dividing it into what gets stored and what gets eaten. Raph and Mikey work in silence except to ask murmured questions, and that's fine with Raph. He finds he's craving the quiet, the simple ritual of creating meals, and giving thanks. Ten years ago — hell, five years ago — he wouldn't have believed they'd be eating anything other than worms and algae, or making friends, or —

_Don't be all sappy,_ he warns himself, not soon enough to stop his smile. He ducks his head, and forces himself to frown at a container full of sausage gravy. _Just don't. _

"You seen Donnie or Leo?" he asks Mikey a few minutes later, a little guilty that he hadn't asked before. Leo was with Sensei, and Donnie's with April, which means they're probably fine, but — he should have asked sooner.

Mikey pauses with his hand on the fridge door, and Raph knows he's feeling just as guilty as Raph is. "Nope," he says. "Well, I checked Leo's room, and he was still out, so I just left him. Figured he'd need to sleep off…everything, you know?"

Raph knows. Raph fucking _knows. _"So no Donnie?"

Mikey scoffs, and rolls his eyes at Raph. "Dude, he's in his _room_. With _April_. I am _so_ not gonna interrupt."

Well, there's no arguing with that. Raph has absolutely no urge to go see what they've gotten up to, but someone should check on Donnie. And since he's the one who made such a big deal about Donnie not being alone, about them needing Donnie, it makes sense that he's the one to do it.

"I'll give them another hour," he says, feeling better now that the decision's made. "Then I'll bring them some breakfast or something."

"Aw, dude, that's sweet," says Mikey. "Breakfast in bed! Then they won't have to leave the _love nest_. Maybe you should do that for Casey! 'Cause you know, the bigger the sickness, the better the —" He does jazz hands, smirking and waggling his eyebrows.

"Shut up," snaps Raph, his cheeks heating. He throws a bag of dry noodles at Mikey's head. "You're a little shit."

"Better than being a big shit, brah," Mikey tosses back, catching the bag without looking. "So what're we gonna do about Leo?" he asks, going serious in the space of a heartbeat. "Like, as long as Donnie's got April, he's good, right? They'll kiss and make up or whatever, but Leo needs…" He gives up, shrugging, and gives Raph a pleading look.

Raph stares at his hands. He has no idea what Leo needs. Who the hell ever thought things would get so bad that Raph is the one trying to figure out what other people need? He can barely ask for what he needs himself. He just doesn't have the language. Give him something to kick, punch, stab, destroy, and he's fine. But feelings are so soft, and delicate, and he's neither. He can't take care of precious things. Look at Spike.

Look at _Slash_.

He closes his eyes.

With anything else, Raph would just say that Leo needed to talk to Sensei. They've always been on the same wavelength — how many times had he called Leo _a good little soldier_, or _Splinter Junior_? He'd meant to hurt with those words, and they always had, because of how much truth rested behind them. Leo could always turn to Sensei, except where Karai was concerned. They're both too clouded, too close, to see clearly, no matter how much is at stake and no matter how hard they try. Karai is always going to be the wedge that drives them apart.

Raph wishes he had killed her. He should have torn her apart and left her scattered over the city, a finger here, a knot of hair and teeth there. Or he should have done what heroes in the stories always did, and cut her into seven pieces and then buried her with her mouth full of sand. He wouldn't need words for that. He's Leo's threat, his brother's last resort. What stopped him from doing what Leo couldn't?

Leo hadn't asked him to, that's what. Leo wanted her alive — no, Raph realizes, his heart plummeting in his chest, Leo wants her dead, but he doesn't want her blood on Raph's hands.

It's a terrible gift, taking that responsibility. Donnie and Leo keep giving it, over and over, and Raph will never be able to thank them enough. He's started to try, with Donnie, and that's something, but he needs to do more, he needs to give Leo something. He needs to find a way to take some of the weight off his brother's shoulders, just for a little while, or he needs to find a way to strengthen Leo's armor against Karai. Sensei can't do that, he needs armor almost as badly as Leo does, and Donnie is too wrecked to do it himself. Mikey would do it, but everyone needs Mikey, not just Leo. And Raph — Raph's a weapon, not armor.

"We can't call Radical," he says. "She'd just laugh, and…" He trails off, trying not to let his hands tighten too much on the table. Fucking Radical.

"Yeah," says Mikey heavily. He scoops up a forkful of lasagna, but doesn't lift it to his mouth. "But like, who else is there? Leo needs — _dude._ I got it!"

Raph looks up, his thoughts a half-second behind Mikey's. It's not quite telepathy, not quite April's empathy, but he knows his brothers so well that he can read Mikey's answer in his gaze, and in how wide his smile is.

"Oh, _yeah_," he says, feeling his own mouth lift in a grin. "That's…that's…you feel like taking a trip, Mikey?"

It is nothing short of a perfect spring morning. Though the air is still edged with the chill clinging to the mountains, the sun is warm, the grass is lush and green, and the lake is still as polished glass.

Such a morning, Usagi decides, was meant for a leisurely breakfast away from duty and ritual, spent in the company of dear friends.

"More tea, Usagi? Genn?" Tomoe Ame casts a look across the table, waiting for their nods before pouring.

Usagi inhales the fragrant steam before sipping. It has been brewed too long, and is bitter on his tongue, but it's the warmth he craves, not the flavor. Tomoe Ame shares his opinion, raising an eyebrow at him as she lowers her cup, turning instead to the plate of tamagoyaki. Genn, for his part, neither seems to notice or care about the bitter taste. Usagi's friend applies himself with a will to the rice and miso, humming his approval as he eats.

It is a perfect spring morning, Usagi reflects, gazing around the pavilion. A polite murmur of subdued conversation floats toward him from the other tables, though no one voice is loud enough to be heard with clarity.

"Dude! Usagi! My man! There room for a turtle at this party?"

_Oh, no_, thinks Usagi. His stomach drops as the other patrons' heads turn, as one, to stare in the direction of the blithe, youthful voice. Michelangelo's voice.

It _was _a perfect spring morning.

Michelangelo crosses the room, tossing winks and smiles at all who dare to meet his eyes. The turtle does not seem to notice the chill, though he wears nothing but his wraps and leathers straps. It is very clear, from the shocked looks on the patrons' faces, that they have not failed to notice his state of undress.

Tomoe Ame tries to hide her smirk and fails, quite badly. Usagi schools his face into stillness as all eyes turn to him, and resolutely does not wince as Michelangelo drops gracelessly onto a cushion at Tomoe Ame's side.

"Long time no see," he says, reaching for the rice. "Man, I am _starving, _and — Tomoe Ame! How's it hanging?" He kisses her cheek, eliciting more than a few gasps from the tables around theirs. "How's little lord Pandaface? Still not-so-large and in charge?"

"Lord Noriyuki is well, Michelangelo," says Tomoe Ame, with a sharp hint of disapproval. She is a patient creature, Usagi knows, but she will brook no disrespect to her lord. "I see you are same as ever."

"You know me." Michelangelo tosses a ball of rice into his mouth and chews lustily, noisily. From long, long experience, Usagi knows what a performance this glib exterior is, but it does not lessen his embarrassment as Michelangelo leans back and crosses one leg over the other. "And Genn! Good to see you!"

"Michelangelo," says Genn, barely nodding as he rescues the rice from Michelangelo's clinging hands. "Well met."

Usagi closes his eyes. "My friend," he says, hoping with all his soul that Michelangelo has some purpose to be here beyond disruption and flirtation. "You are most welcome, as always, but I must ask — is there a reason for your visit?"

Michelangelo's face goes dark for an instant, but on a face so sunny, on a face meant for joy and laughter, an instant feels like an entire night's worth of darkness. "Yeah," he says heavily. "I got a reason. It's Leo, Usagi."

Leonardo.

He counts all the turtles as friends, as well as their human partners, but it is Leonardo for whom Usagi feels a true affinity. Beyond the distinction of _samurai _and _ninja _that separates them, they are both warriors. They are leaders. They are…_righteous. _And Leonardo, though shrouded in deceit as are all ninja, has a core of true honor.

Leonardo, most trusted of Usagi's friends, most cherished.

His _dearest_ friend.

"What has happened?" he asks, no longer feeling the wind, but a deeper chill, a foreboding in his chest of greater ills to come. "Michelangelo?"

The turtle swallows. "He's no bueno in the brainpan, Usagi," he replies. "Karai's back, and she's got some new friends."

That is all Usagi needs to hear. His mouth twists into a grim line as he sets his teacup aside. A far more bitter taste rests on his tongue. _Karai_. The serpent, the nettles and thorns, the venom in a bite, the most gleeful of evils that Usagi has faced. Leonardo — and his family — must be protected from this blight.

"I will come," says Usagi, though Michelangelo has not asked. Judging by the pathetically grateful smile Michelangelo bestows upon Usagi, that is precisely what he was going to ask, given the opportunity.

* * *

><p><em>This world, Usagi reflects, is misery given solid form. All around him, buildings rise from the earth with no thought for harmony or aesthetics; with every breath, he smells cold steel, rotting wood, damp stones. He smells <em>filth_, and suppresses a shudder as the wind blows a fresh burst of the stink toward him. _

The sooner my business is ended, the sooner I may return home_, he tells himself, and focuses on the fight ahead, and the daisho within his reach. A long battle may end this night, and Usagi cannot give into dreams of home, nor his exhaustion. His quarry is close; the monster he has chased across more dimensions than he can count is here, almost within reach. _

_It is almost over. Justice will be served. _

_He turns his head out of the wind, scanning over the tops of buildings, watching for movement through the forests of slender metal rods on the roofs. Such creatures in this world! He catches glimpses of them through windows as they yell, weep, laugh, and sleep. They all look so alike; how can they tell one from another? Such smooth-skinned creatures, most of them flabby and unused to labor. _

Focus!_ He tears his gaze from a woman cradling a baby to her chest, rocking it to sleep, and listens. The wind has changed, and he hears echoes, a dull, distant clash of steel. _

_A battle. _

_Usagi has already turned in the direction of the fight before the roar reaches him, and he leaps without thinking, teeth bared. His quarry! Finally, he may finish the work begun so long ago, when he cut off the monster's tail and sent him slinking in shame back to his hovel. _

I should have finished it then_, Usagi thinks, trying to outrace his regret. _I should have killed Tiger Claw, and rid all worlds of his evil. I was young and foolish then, and thought the battle over — how many innocents have suffered for my hesitation and pride?

_He comforts himself as he runs with the thought that Tiger Claw will no longer vent his malice upon anyone, innocent or otherwise. Fate has given him the chance to right his long-ago mistake, and he shall not hesitate now. _

_The sounds of battle grow as he races over the dark, rain-slick rooftops. Usagi is silent save for the steady, unhurried rhythm of his breath and the hiss as he draws his katana from its sheath, but the combatants would not hear him over their shouts and cries. _

They sound like children, _Usagi thinks, with a curl of his lip. _No true warriors would cry out so. It is well I am coming, for such inexperience will only lead to failure. _He admires the fighters, without reluctance, for though they are loud, they have held Tiger Claw at bay long enough to Usagi to reach them. _

_It brings him up short — it stops him mid-pace — when he reaches the edge of the last roof, and sees that it is indeed a group of children facing Tiger Claw, with weapons he recognizes, and no small degree of skill. _

_Children, yes, but they are like no children that Usagi has yet seen in this world. They are —_turtles_, moving with speed and grace, with proficiency that gives lie to their age. They move as one, a blinding whirl of green limbs and faint bursts of other colors, and Usagi cannot help but stare. _

_They are ninja, he realizes; though these children move in the open, there is no disguising the origins of their art. Deception, distraction, misdirection: these are the ninja's hallmarks, and he thinks of how delighted Chizu would be with such youthful devotion to her art. _

_Ninja. Were he not dedicated to destroying Tiger Claw, he would count these children as his enemies — and yet, he has found them fighting his quarry. That makes them, for a brief span, something akin to allies. _

_He poises to leap, but pauses when one of the children, broad and red-masked, comes too close to Tiger Claw, and earns a blow to the head for his trouble. The child cries out, fury fading to pain and dismay as he falls and lies motionless, and the other three children freeze. _

_"Raph's down!" calls the tallest child, his own voice made reedy by fear and exhaustion, and tries to reach his fallen brother. Tiger Claw laughs, a thick chuckle that stabs at Usagi's heart, and draws one of his strange weapons from its holster. _

_Tiger Claw sets the tall child in his sights. "You thought you could face me, and win? You have learned _nothing!"

_The child does not reply. He merely covers his brother's body with his own and closes his eyes. _

_Usagi leaps. He cannot — he will not allow this to happen. _

_There are two screams, in the instant before Usagi's feet touch the rooftop. The other children, blue- and orange-masked, wielding katana and nunchaku, jump from the shadows, distracting Tiger Claw long enough for the shot to go wide and miss the targets. _

_Tiger Claw roars again, bringing his weapon to bear on the child in blue, who faces him with teeth bared. "Foolish cub!" he cries, as the child runs at him, in silence, in desperation. _

_"Tiger Claw!" cries Usagi. All movement stops, and he allows himself one moment of pure, savage delight as a shudder runs through Tiger Claw. He slowly turns to face Usagi, too stunned to do more than sneer, and Usagi smiles. It will end, here, now. Tonight. _

_"I see you have stooped to attacking children, Tiger Claw," he says, lazily, disdainfully, a challenge and an insult. "I admit, I am not surprised. You were always without honor. But you shall hurt them no more! I am eager to finish what we began so long ago. Do you remember that day?" _

_ Oh, no, Tiger Claw has not forgotten him, not a whit. He chokes on his roar, all his attention on Usagi, and raises his weapon once more. _

_"The only finish, rabbit," he growls, "will be _yours_." _

_Usagi laughs. "We shall see." Without losing track of Tiger Claw's movements, he flicks a glance at the child in blue, who stares at him with an open mouth, eyes wide and startled. They are not as young as he thought at first, their shells and chests covered with scars. "Go!" he yells. "Take your injured and run! I will handle Tiger Claw!" _

_The child still stares at him, his mouth struggling to shape words, but the smallest one tugs at his arm, hissing at him to come away, to run, to help Raph. Reluctantly, the child lets himself be pulled away, and his mouth, smeared with blood, finally forms coherent words. _

Thank you_, the child says. _

_Usagi spares him a nod, but no more, for Tiger Claw has let the engine on his back roar to infernal life, and there is murder in his eyes. _

_It will end this night, for good. _

* * *

><p><em>Usagi staggers away from what is left of Tiger Claw, exhausted and empty, unable to tell exactly where the blood on his armor has come from, or to whom it belongs. He is fairly certain most of it is not his, but he feels light-headed enough to make him doubt the assessment. <em>

I must hide_, he thinks_, and rest. I must take care not to be seen, I must —

_"Hey." The voice at his side is soft, not a threat, but Usagi whirls to face it, raising his blade. If he must fight, so be it, though he is in no condition to do so. At least the hunt is over, the battle won. He will die righteous, if he must die at all. _

_The child faces him, eyes still wide in his blue mask. "I — we came back to see if we could help," he says. Behind him, the other three linger, bandaged and bruised, exhausted beyond telling. "Can you walk, or do you need help?" _

_Usagi nearly snaps that he needs no help from such as them, that they are ninja and therefore anathema to all he holds sacred. A soft voice reminds him that they fought Tiger Claw, and that this one thanked him for his help before running away. Is it too much to hope that some honor has touched them, despite their art? _

_"I believe…" Usagi licks his lips and cringes at the taste of blood upon them. His, or Tiger Claw's? He cannot tell, he cannot tell. "I believe I should sit down," he finishes, and collapses to his knees. _

_The child — blue-eyed to match his mask — kneels at his side, holding out a bottle of water. He holds it steady as Usagi drinks, lowering the bottle when Usagi begins to gasp and choke. He nods at the tallest turtle, who crouches beside Usagi and probes a cut on his arm with gentle fingers. _

_"You need stitches," he says, frowning. "I can get this bandaged, and it'll hold for a while, but it won't last." _

_"Thank you, but I am fine," Usagi says, and tries to rise to his feet. He is weary, so very weary, and longs for rest with all that is in him. "You do not need to trouble yourselves." He does not give voice to the steadily growing unease he feels, surrounded on all sides by ninja. _

_"I think we do," says the first child, who Usagi is certain is the leader, judging by how the others orient themselves around him, taking their cues from his subtle movements and hand gestures. "You saved our shells back there. We were already in bad shape after dealing with the Kraang, and then Tiger Claw —" He sighs, and in his face, Usagi sees an echo of his own weariness, and how care has already begun to age him. They cannot be more than ten years younger than his own twenty-eight, but they hold themselves like warriors of long standing. _

_He finds he admires them, in spite of himself. _

_"It wouldn't be right if we just left you," says the leader, with an air of finality. "You saved us. Let us help you. I promise, you're safe." He meets Usagi's eyes and holds his gaze. There is no subterfuge, no guile. "Besides, anyone who wants to take out Tiger Claw is a friend, right?" This last is directed to the others, who nod, offering Usagi variations on the same, exhausted smile. _

_Usagi hopes his trust will not be misplaced. He cannot sense dishonesty in them, but he has been wrong before. He trusts Chizu, and it is for her sake, and for the gift of friendship and honesty she has given him, that he holds out his hand to the leader. _

_"Miyamoto Usagi," he says, pleased with the solid, unflinching pressure of the leader's hand in his. _

_"Hamato Leonardo," comes the reply. "Come on, we'll get you out of sight, get you patched up. Then maybe you can tell us how you and Tiger Claw met." _

_Usagi sighs as he eases to his feet. "It is a long story," he says, wincing, and letting Leonardo take some of his weight. _

_"That's the best kind," Leonardo answers, with a bright smile._

* * *

><p>Raph knocks on Leo's door. He doesn't get a response at first, so he waits before knocking again, glancing down the hall at Donnie's room. The door is still firmly shut, but he can hear soft voices from inside, and he decides to give them a little more time before hauling them out, and reminding the two geniuses that they need to eat sometimes. As long as they're talking, they're fixing themselves.<p>

He presses his ear to Leo's door and knocks again. "Hey. Leo. Time to wake up."

"Raph?" He hears Leo throw off his covers and stumble toward him. The door cracks open, and Leo's reddened, bleary gaze meets him. "What is it? Is everyone okay? Are we —" He rubs his eyes, sighing, and Raph's hand tightens on the doorframe. Leo is _wrecked_, more than Raph can remember seeing him.

No, not true — Raph remembers what Leo looked like when he woke up in his own bed after they rescued him from Shredder's dungeon, and he looked worse than this. Young and dazed and so thankful for being safe, for being home.

"We're good, Leo," he says. "Mikey went to see the grannies, and he brought back a shit ton of food. Figured I should wake you up before Mikey eats it all."

"Oh." Leo blinks at him, and almost smiles a half-beat later. "Yeah, that'd be nice." His eyes move toward the kitchen. "Any of those biscuits and gravy?" he asks, wistfully, as he steps out of his room.

"I think so." Raph falls into step at Leo's side, ready to catch him if he stumbles. Leo is slow, no grace or rhythm in his movements, but his shoulders straighten as they get closer to the kitchen. "But you'll want to eat them later. We're going vegetarian for breakfast today. Sandra sent cinnamon rolls, though. Think those'll make up for it."

"Maybe," says Leo. He pauses, looking at Raph with a frown. "Wait. Vegetarian? Why?"

"Dude!" Mikey interrupts, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a plate of cinnamon rolls in one hand. "Get your shell moving, or I'm gonna eat all of these!"

Leo opens his mouth, shuts it, and turns back to the kitchen without another word. Raph follows a step behind, his stomach rolling over. This has to work, it has to help.

Mikey steps out of the way to let them through, but Raph lingers in the doorway, watching as Leo freezes mid-step, his eyes fixed on Usagi. He can never tell when tension breaks unless it's with a blow or with a scream, but today, in this moment, Raph feels the air shift, something sour leaching away, and what feels like light breaking through the stones around them.

He and Mikey — they did the right thing, and Raph knows this like he knows his sai or his own hands.

"Oh my God," says Leo, his voice breaking, one hand raised in a fist. "Usagi."

"Leonardo." Usagi steps forward, smiling a little sadly, and captures Leo's fist in both of his hands. "My friend," he says.

Leo doesn't sob, or make any noise at all. Instead, his shoulders slump and he throws his arms around Usagi, in a hug too tight to be comfortable, but Usagi doesn't complain. He only embraces Leo back, taking all of Leo's weight.

Raph exhales, feeling like he's been holding his breath for hours. Next to him, Mikey relaxes, and sets the plate of cinnamon rolls aside. He bumps shoulders with Raph, shared relief jumping between them at the contact, and Raph smiles at him. Thank God for Mikey, and his strokes of genius.

It's a very good thing that Mikey set aside the plate, Raph thinks a moments later, because Leo releases Usagi from the hug only to spin around and pull Raph and Mikey into an even tighter one, his breath hot on their shoulders. Raph can hear him whispering, a thanks that Raph feels more than hears, in the gradual loosening of Leo's muscles.

They're all his armor, just like he's theirs. And Raph, to his genuine, aching surprise, begins to understand that he can take care, no matter how precious a thing he's been trusted with. Whatever comes, he can do more than destroy. He can build, he can forgive. He can heal.


	4. Interlude: Simple Gifts

**A/N:** This fic takes place a few hours after the end of Walking Wounded, and immediately follows the events in Interlude: Westron Wynde.

* * *

><p>Until she turned twelve, April thought <em>special<em> was something she needed to be. Teachers called her _special_, and made it sound like a prize, something to reach for with both hands. Her parents told her she was special, that she could be or do anything she wanted.

And then her mother died, and April found out what _special_ really meant. It meant you were marked. It meant you were _different_, because when you came home from school and found your mother facedown in the middle of the kitchen, her coffee cold in its mug on the counter, no one ever really looked at you again. _Special_ meant people treated you delicately, but not like something precious. They treated you like a bomb, seconds from exploding, and no one wanted to get caught in the shrapnel when you finally blew.

_Special_ meant loneliness. _Special_ meant sitting across from counselors who just wanted you to talk, when what you really wanted to do was cry until you fell asleep. _Special _meant waking up every morning, and having to remind yourself not to call out for Mom because then Dad's face would crumple and he wouldn't eat for the rest of the day.

_Special_ meant being angry. Moms aren't supposed to die, and they aren't supposed to do it where their daughters can find them, and they aren't supposed to do it without saying goodbye. April had so much left to ask her mother, so many stupid little things, like _why do you wear blue all the time_ and _why do you laugh when Dad brings home asparagus for dinner_.

She still hadn't asked _why do you think I'm special, Mom? _Instead, she had to figure it out for herself, when her father knelt down in front of her, brushed the hair out of her eyes, and said "Sweetheart, we have take care of each other now" in a careful, careful voice.

_Special_ meant wanting to scream, and knowing it would never help.

April never wanted to be special. She wanted to be happy. Her father did what he could, and April treasures him for every single time he indulged her, even as he battled his own grief. Did April want to go out for dinner every night for two weeks, because being in the kitchen for more than five minutes gave her nightmares? Then they would go out for dinner. Did April want to stay up and watch Doris Day movies until she fell asleep on the couch, even though it was a school night? Then her father would cover her with blankets and sit up with her, then carry her to bed.

Her father didn't have anyone else left to love after her mother died, just April, and he loved her with everything he had. That made April special too, the only way she could bear the word now, because all she had left was her father. But no matter how much love he gave her, her father couldn't stop the tiny, thirsty, furious seed in April's heart from drinking in all her grief, and sending out its bright roots to search for more. And when it bloomed, her grief gave way to anger, and she stayed angry, every day since.

Had that seed been there from the beginning, just waiting to blossom? April doesn't know. Maybe it was some other Kraang gift, one more thing to make her special. April O'Neil, the motherless child, the angry girl, the weapon. She doesn't want to be any of those things. She doesn't want to be special. And yet, she is motherless, she is angry, and she is a weapon. She is, if the Kraang can be believed, one of the most important people in the world.

April knows what she is. She's dangerous.

Sometimes, when she's stayed up too many nights in a row and hasn't been eating, her thoughts go charred-black at the edges, and she sits on the edge of her roof and wonders why she's still alive. The turtles have done the cost-analysis — Donnie has, at least — and there's no way she's worth the risk. If the Kraang come back, if they catch her again — well, she certainly doesn't expect them to be merciful. They made it clear when she was sixteen that her pain amused them, and that they were prepared to hold a grudge for a very, very long time. So why, she sometimes wonders, has neither side taken that final step? The turtles love her, but April would hardly blame them if they chose the world over her, and wouldn't it be easier for the Kraang to just erase her and start from scratch with someone more pliable?

But no. April is _special_.

April is also very tired.

When her thoughts go dark like this, someone always appears to pull her out of the undertow. Usually Donnie, sometimes Casey, like they've been called to her by some low-level telepathy. Casey will tease her out of it, get her spitting mad, then laugh and hug her too tightly, and Donnie will — Donnie will sit quietly with her, not quite touching, and tell her about stars forming in distant galaxies.

On one of those nights, she told Donnie she was afraid all the time, and he only smiled and touched her hand.

_You don't have to be afraid, _he told her. _You're star stuff. _

She had laughed, and punched him in the arm, because _really, Donnie? Carl Sagan?_ He just kept smiling, until her laughter died away, and instead of being afraid, she thought of atoms bonding after thousands of years apart, and new light spreading through cold darkness.

That was the first night in almost half her life April believed that being _special_ wasn't so horrible. And maybe that was the first night her stomach dropped when she met Donnie's gaze, but then Casey swung up the fire escape and whatever fragile realization she had just begun to touch scattered.

April understands what _special_ means now. It means that there are people who will always believe she is worth saving. The very first person to believe that, the one who looked at her and saw not grief or fury but something he wanted to cherish, is standing within reach, shaking, looking like his heart has been cracked through its center.

He saved her. Over and over, too many times to count. April could try for the rest of her life to deserve Donnie, and she would never come close. He's too kind and patient. He's forgiven her for every selfish, vicious outburst, and he will keep forgiving her, because that's Donnie.

_If he's a monster, _April thinks, watching Donnie cling to his door, staring at her with wild eyes, _then what am I?_

The answer's easy: she's a monster too, just as the Kraang made her.

* * *

><p>Donnie doesn't stop shaking. He barely moves at all, and no one who hasn't spent the last ten years or longer memorizing how his body moves would be able to see it, but April can see every tiny tremor as it moves through his arms and legs. He's trying to hide them from her, locking his knees and elbows and gritting his jaw, but April knows. And shouldn't she know his body by now, maybe even better than her own? His is the body that keeps saving hers. A shield, a spear, a shelter: his body has been so many things that her own can't. So when he shakes, she sees it, and she aches to touch him, and let her body do what his can't.<p>

But he asked her to wait, and until he asks her for something else, she'll stay right where she is.

When she shifts to let her weight rest more on her good leg, Donnie's eyes don't flick downward to track her movement. They stay locked on her face, and the only noise in the room is the almost-silent rattle of his breathing.

"What happened to you, Donnie?" April asks, the question breaking out of her before she can snatch it back. Her hands lift, reaching out to him, ready to cradle his head between them. There's so much _weight_ on his shoulders, and it wasn't there when he left for the lab. Jenny, for all her bluster and teasing, has never left Donnie like this, so what did? What crept into his safe, quiet lab, and left him like this?

Donnie shakes his head, a bare twitch, and his throat jumps.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong," she says, inching closer, watching to make sure he doesn't flinch away from her. "But please, let me help you. I'm here."

"You w—" Donnie cuts his sentence off, shaking his head again, distress etched into his face like fault lines. He's not as quick to lock down the liquid-flame ache in his head; it flows out of him and into April, and buries itself in her head like a scythe.

She hisses a gasp through her teeth, and reels, struggling for balance. It burns, but it's not flame, not at all — it's _ice, _and it makes what she felt in Donnie's head last night feel like a summer breeze. This is _winter_, snow-choked mountains and ice underfoot, air freezing in her lungs, it's —

Despair. What she feels is perfect, holy despair.

"Oh my god," she wheezes, the breath knocked out of her and the room spinning around her. No one deserves this feeling. It's bleak, and cold enough to whip the air out of the room, the kind of cold she had only read about and never thought she would experience. But the cold keeps coming, like an army on the march, and above it all shrieks a high and lonely wind.

Then she's swallowed by the wind and pinned between its teeth.

* * *

><p><em>It's too dark to see much beyond desks, old computers, and a dusty collection of beakers, but April knows this is a place she's never seen before. All the angles are unfamiliar, and the air is too cold, much too cold, for it to be Donnie's lab. He always manages to keep it a precise seventy degrees, balanced neatly between arid and too-dry. <em>

_And Donnie would never, not in a thousand years, allow_ dust _to show its grey face in his lab. _

_Could it be the Kraang's? _

_April shakes her head. She refuses to think about all the white panels, and what hides beneath them. Instead, she takes a careful step into the dark room, watching her footing when something crumbles under her shoes. Every movement echoes, and even her pulse thunders too loudly in her ears. _

_Her empathy may be muted, but ten years' worth of training would warn her if she was in any immediate danger. Besides, this might be a dream — and no matter what scary stories try to tell you, it's impossible to die of fright. _

_She makes it five steps into the room before a light flicks on, far in the back of the room. It goes off again immediately, and someone's low voice rumbles in the distance. _

_April licks her lips, swallows, and decides to see what happens when she speaks. What's the worst that could happen? If it gets too creepy, she'll wake up. And Donnie will be there._

_"Hello? Is anyone there?" _

_Something thin and fragile — a test tube, maybe, so old it's brittle — shatters. No one responds, but the silence around her has a gathered, held-breath quality to it now. She's not alone. _

_"Hello?" April threads her way between two desks. "Uh, sorry to barge in like this, but —" _Is this a dream or not? Help me out a bit, subconscious. _"But I'm not sure where I am. Can you help me?" _

_Her foot catches on the leg of a chair. She tumbles forward, gasping, and barely keeps from falling. Her pulse deafens her, thudding in her ears until it's the only thing she can hear. _Don't want to fall again, Jesus Christ._ She laughs, a little shaky, and stands up. _

_"If you want me to leave, just say so," she says when her breathing is under control again. She wants to wake up now; she might not be able to die in a dream but she doesn't want to dream about falling, either. "Seriously, I can just —" _

_Her voice shrivels to a whisper, then falls apart. Something is moving just beyond the last desk, a humped, crooked figure, wrapped in cloth so faded it has no color at all. _

Run, run_, screams her training. _Don't look, whatever you do, don't look_. _

_It moves like it's been beaten, like a kicked dog crawling back to its master, hoping for some small kindness. It's so tall, all spindly arms and legs and a heavy, heavy head. April tries to turn away, but this is a dream, and she's trapped in place, her feet rooted to the floor. All she hears is the sick rush of her heart, and she can't stop herself from looking up, and up, and when she sees the gleam of the figure's eyes, she feels like she's been slapped. _

You had to look.

_Donnie shoves the hood of his makeshift cape back and squints down at her. _

_"April?" he asks, and she can't look away, even though this Donnie is wrong. An old, ragged mask, no leather straps, marks on his neck and plastron, bent, ruined hands, and oh, his face. This is Donnie _old_, old and sad and —_

_This is what Donnie looks like when he's been broken: greyed-out skin, his eyes milky and dull, a concave curve to his belly that makes her throat ache to look at. His mouth twitches in a parody of a smile. On this Donnie, it's nothing more than a handful of bones, leaves in winter wind. _

_"April," he says, in a voice like a sigh, and reaches out for her. At the last minute, just before he touches her, he pauses, and April chokes out a sob. That pause is so _Donnie_, always giving her a way out, always doubting how much he's wanted, and seeing it in this Donnie is intolerable. She reaches back, her hands too clean, too small against his, and squeezes his fingers. She does it gently, because even in the dim light, it's impossible to miss how the knuckles are swollen and tender, and how none of the bones lie in straight lines anymore. His fingertips are ragged, no longer capable of any grace, or even efficiency. _

_This Donnie, with his destroyed hands, is the worst thing April has ever seen. _

_"It's me," she says, the words faltering. "I—" _

_"Shh," he says, absently, sternly, and brings his rough fingers to her mouth. It's the lightest of touches, barely there at all, but there's history in it too, and something quiet in his gaze. Something intimate; this Donnie has made this gesture before, touched her like this. "I almost forgot what you looked like," he says, his crooked mouth trembling. "That was the worst of all. Not being able to see you." He stops, frowns, and slowly pulls his hands away from her face. "Too young," he murmurs. "She's too young. Not right."_

_April tries to snatch his fingers back. She's not sure why she wants him to touch her so badly, but it's important that he does. It's so important that he never stops. But Donnie keeps withdrawing, until his arms are at his sides and he draws his cape around himself once more. _

_"Stupid," he says, his head dropping. "Almost fell for it. Just another trick."_

_If she felt like she had been slapped before, it feels like she's being flayed now. _

_"Donnie," she manages to say, reaching for his hands even as he shrinks away from her. "What happened to you?" _

_He steps away from her, shaking his head, a horrible, dry smile spreading across his mouth. "See, that's how I know it's a trick, you bastard," he says, and wags his finger at her. "The right one would know. Not my April." The smile fades, just as quickly as it came, and he starts to shuffle back into the dark. "Not my April," he says, over and over, until the lab is filled with the whispered echo of his lost voice. _

* * *

><p>"Donnie —" She clutches for him, reeling, and his room slides back into focus. But it's not right, it's too cold, there's wind in her head that shouldn't be there and she can't breathe, she's lost something, she's lost, she's<p>

_gone_

_The Bull opens one pond-sized eye — the other has been long burned away, and there is nothing to be seen here_ —_ as the Champions cry out in one voice. _

_Now. It must move while it still can, shifting the pieces while there is yet time. It can do so little, and it regrets this intrusion. Later, the Bull shall beg her forgiveness, but now it must grasp at this chance. The Boar has turned its attention elsewhere, to its wayward servant, and it shall not notice if the Bull adds this scrap of magic. _

_She gasps as the change takes her, a single ember against an entire winter, but her self gathers round the fragile heat. _

Forgive me_, thinks the Bull, even as it knows she cannot, will not, for this last, monstrous invasion. _

_Even if it saves her life and all the others besides, she will never forgive._

* * *

><p>April slips back into her body, cold but thawing, faint threads of nausea dissipating, and finds Donnie watching her, mouthing her name.<p>

_Am I yours? _she thinks, too full of the other Donnie, broken and alone, to say a word. _Let me be yours. _

She holds out her hands, ready for him to shrink away or shake his head, but Donnie grabs her wrist, clings to her like a lifeline, and lets out a long, shivering breath.

_Focus. He needs you. Don't cry. Be better. _

April's given herself these talks before — head high, back straight, act fine — but never quite so desperately. She doubts it'll work at first, because she is still so cold, and Donnie's hand on her wrist makes her think of rough fingers at her mouth, but Donnie looks at her, silently pleading for help, and she feels the first hint of steel in her spine.

"It's real, isn't it?" she asks, rhetorically. "The Boar." When Donnie nods, his pulse jumps in his throat and he squeezes tighter, until the thin bones in her hand creak. April doesn't protest. Let him take whatever she can give him; without him, she wouldn't have anything to give anyone, so he can have this, and she will be brave for them both.

She tugs him away from the door with the gentlest bullying she can manage, stroking his wrist and not letting go when he drags his feet. Instead, she lets him squeeze her fingers, watching and chewing on her tongue as he breathes through the pain in his legs. Red blotches, visible even in the low light coming from Donnie's desk lamp, have begun to show through the bandages on his left thigh, but April can't think of leaving him long enough to get fresh gauze. This is where she needs to be, letting Donnie crush her hand in his as she eases him to the bed.

When they get there, he doesn't let her pull him down to the mattress. He draws her in close, until there's barely a finger's-width separating them, and lifts his hand to hover near her throat.

It's only when he hesitates that April comes right up against how dangerous Donnie can be. She's always know that he's brilliant, and watching him fight astonishes and unnerves her in equal measure. But with his hand inches from her neck, she feels how powerful he is, how he is not human and never will be, and she knows he could hurt her without making an effort.

He won't hurt her. Never has, never will. The same hand waiting to feel her pulse is the same hand that caught her as she fell, all those years ago. So she tilts her head back, baring her throat, and holds his gaze as she nods.

Donnie's hand settles over her neck, and April shivers as his heavy thumb traces her pulse. He's so careful, so delicate, but all April can think of is how nothing about them or this moment or the weight of what they feel is safe. They will always be too much, they will always be monsters. They will always have each other.

"We'll kill it," she says, as his thumb moves up to rest against her chin. "I promise you. It's dead."

Something in her shifts, something _hungry_, and April closes her eyes.

She stays silent and still until he takes a breath — the first full breath she's heard since he came back to the room — and slowly, reluctantly lets his hand fall to his side.

"Dead isn't good enough," he says. "It needs to be —"

"— gone," April finishes for him. This is an old conversation. They've had it for each of their enemies. _Dead_ is only the first step; _gone_ is the endgame. No miracles for what waits in the dark.

"Gone," Donnie agrees, tucking her hair behind her ear. He draws himself up, head high, and April imitates him. Yes, they're still broken, but they're still here, still ready to fight. They always are.

"Let's go tell the others," April says. She takes his hand, hides her fingers in his, and together they head into the lair.


	5. Interlude: A Pattern of Stillness

**A/N: **This fic takes place a few hours after the end of Walking Wounded, and overlaps slightly with the events in Interlude: Simple Gifts. Miyamoto Usagi belongs to his eponymous series of comics by Stan Sakai.

* * *

><p>Leo takes his time over breakfast, not speaking, barely listening to the voices around him as he cuts the cinnamon roll on his plate into tiny, tiny pieces. His throat aches with every swallow, but he keeps eating, one methodical bite after another. Usagi may not be looking at him, may only be a warm, implacable presence at his side, but his friend is paying attention, even if his focus seems to be completely absorbed by Mikey's never-ending monologue.<p>

It's clear, even to Leo, that Mikey isn't actually saying anything. Oh, he's forming words and sentences, and some of them even make sense, but what he says doesn't matter. Doesn't even register. What Mikey's doing is filling the silence as only he can, distracting the dark tendrils trying to creep into their bright, worn kitchen with noise and laughter. Misdirection. Camouflage.

_I don't thank him enough for this_, Leo thinks, his hand shaking as he tries to lift a meager forkful to his mouth. _I don't thank any of them enough. _

He thought the worst of his anger washed away the night before, in the quiet minutes after April left him by the koi pond. Leo breathed the silty, heavy air, and imagined his rage and his grief and his longing dropping into the water, past the silent fish, to where light couldn't reach them. He wanted to leave them there, so no matter what shape the battle took, he could be pure when he faced it. _Wash me clean_, he prayed — not to any gods he could name, but to silent voices, vague shapes, distant shores — _let me be whole as I face this. Let me be what my family needs. _

_Please._

Then he cried at his father's side, each tear like the lash of a whip, or the bite of a blade, and when he laid himself down to sleep, he felt clean, if not forgiven.

It hadn't lasted. He wasn't ready.

The way he'd reacted to Usagi appearing in his kitchen was proof of that. It wasn't like him to be so open with his need; he was a leader, his brothers and father came first, and if he had anything to spare after that, he would turn his focus to his friends.

And then Karai —

He drops his fork, and the clatter of metal against porcelain cuts across Mikey's words and leaves them all silent.

Leo doesn't flush or apologize. He picks up his fork, scoops up another piece of cinnamon roll, and lifts it to his mouth. He knows Usagi and Mikey are looking at their own plates, rather than him, and that Raph is staring at him with badly-concealed fury in his gaze, but Leo ignores them all. He chews, swallows, and doesn't taste.

"So then I said —" Mikey says, brightly, only to stop himself when Usagi lays a warm, heavy hand on Leo's shoulder.

"Don't," Leo chokes, his fists tightening on his fork. "Just — let's eat, it's fine."

"I disagree," says Usagi, with Mikey and Raph murmuring their agreement. "I do not know all that happened, Leonardo, but I know she was involved, and that what is coming is a storm you should not weather alone."

Leo will be indebted to Usagi forever, for many reasons, but not least of all because of the way he said _she_, without a twist or a sneer or any particular emphasis. It gives Leo the chance to look up from his plate, and meet everyone's eyes without flinching, the way he wouldn't have been able to if her name had been spoken.

It took him so long to realize what he felt for Karai wasn't a simple case of savior complex, or loyalty to Splinter. No, he'd gone ahead and fallen in love with her, as if he hadn't learned anything from watching Donnie. He loved her, and hated how he saw the Shredder's teachings in every word, every movement, every laugh, and oh, how had he thought it could be any other way? She didn't want to be saved, and not by him, most of all.

Really, the scars on his arms and neck were the best he could have hoped for. Leo was lucky to escape with so little. Karai always liked to take trophies.

"A storm," he says, to no one at all. "That's what Rahzar said, right before —"

"Perhaps," Usagi interrupts, squeezing his shoulder, "it is better if you tell me everything, from the beginning. After you have eaten. Where is Donatello? Is he occupied?"

"He's sleeping," Raph says, speaking over Mikey's "Occupied with _April_, if you know what I mean."

Usagi's nose twitches, the only sign that yes, he does know what Mikey means, and is choosing not to acknowledge it. Leo smiles, a sad ghost of a smile, but Mikey poking at reserved, fastidious Usagi will never _not_ make him smile.

"And Casey Jones?" Usagi asks. "I thought you said he was here as well, Raphael. Is he not well?"

"It was —" Raph narrows his eyes. It's still a struggle for him, four years on, to talk about Casey except in the vaguest of terms, but Leo knows it's not from reluctance or shame. Raph left shame behind years ago — Raph _likes_ himself now — but language fights him, every single time. As long as Raph can act, he's fine. But now, he's tongue-tied. "It was a bad night," he finally says. "I'm gonna go check on him." He shoves his chair back, the legs scraping on the tile floor, and stomps out of the kitchen without a backwards look.

Leo waits for Usagi to comment on Raph's abrupt exit, but Usagi only turns back to Leo, one brow arched at Leo's plate, which is still mostly covered with food, even though Leo thoroughly dissected everything on it. Leo sighs, and takes another bite. On a normal day, he'd consider it a minor sin to grudgingly shove Anna's cinnamon rolls into his mouth without tasting them, but he can't help feeling like he's swallowing mouthfuls of mud, over and over.

His throat still burns, his eyes are swollen, and Karai isn't dead.

Mikey mutters something about taking breakfast to Splinter, and leaves the table without another word. He scrapes his plate clean in the trash and leaves it in the sink before putting a tray together and slipping away.

Now Leo is alone with Usagi, and he can't think of a thing to say.

Leo remembers the earliest days of their friendship, when he was eighteen and all too eager to follow Usagi around, on the off-chance that they could spar, or talk philosophy, or just sit quietly and rest. Hero worship, plain and simple, and his brothers gave him _hell_ for going all moon-eyed over a samurai — a _rabbit_ samurai, to be precise. If Usagi heard their teasing, he never acknowledged it. Leo learned very quickly that Usagi's code of etiquette was just as rigid as his code of honor — though both, Leo also learned, were capable of bending. Just a little, just enough for them to form a friendship, despite the lines and dimensions between them.

Usagi came while Leo healed from the Shredder's game, saying little, content to sit quietly at Leo's bedside and read while Leo slept, letting his brothers and Splinter rest, sharing the burdens. And if he ever saw Leo in the grip of his nightmares — the blades, the teeth snapping at his heels, and the roar building under the fire — he never said anything, and never judged.

_He's here now_, thinks Leo, setting his fork aside. _If he didn't judge me when I was an idiot, he won't now. _He sends a silent thanks to his brothers for leaving him to tell this story in private, then clears his throat.

"There's something very wrong in New York," is how he begins.

* * *

><p>It is clear from the very beginning that Leonardo is not a storyteller by nature. He stutters, breaks his sentences through the middle, and speaks more to his hands than to his audience. Usagi watches his friend's hands move in uncertain motions, like lamed birds attempting flight, and does his utmost to keep his rage from showing too plainly on his face.<p>

He should focus on Leonardo's voice and not allow this rage to distract him, but it is difficult when he can so clearly count the lines in Leonardo's skin, drawn from fingers to neck, and clustering in a knot at the back of his skull. There is no curse dark enough for this rage; he has never met Karai, and the Shredder died soon after Usagi met the turtles, but he despises them. He prides himself on not allowing his emotions to overrule his control, or his sense of justice, but here is where he stumbles, confronting such vicious, gleeful malice. Those lines were not an act of war; if they had been, Usagi might have found it within himself to look at them with clarity.

Usagi cannot.

"But this malignancy, it did not start here," he says into the quiet kitchen, when Leonardo has fallen silent again after trying once more to begin his tale. The words resist all Leonardo's attempts to be spoken, and he sinks deeper into his shell with every failure. Soon, it will not be possible for him to speak at all, and Usagi cannot bear the thought of such silence. Karai, the Shredder, and the damned Foot have stolen so much already from this family. They will not reach out from the worm-ridden holes in which they hide to steal Leonardo's voice as well. So he will draw the words out himself, if need be, as gently as he can.

Leonardo's relief is clear in his gaze, and Usagi remembers how _young_ Leonardo still is, a full ten years younger than Usagi's thirty-six. He still thinks the line between good and evil is a stark distinction — a struggle Usagi fought himself, what seems like a lifetime ago.

Were they ten years younger, and Leonardo still a boy trying to be a leader, Usagi would try to guide him through this struggle. No one should have to face it alone, as Usagi did, as no doubt Master Splinter did, but the time for Usagi to lead Leonardo has long passed. He cannot pinpoint where the change began, but Leonardo is no longer somewhat of a pupil, but an ally and comrade. A friend.

To deny that he misses those days of Leonardo's comparative innocence would be the most selfish of lies. The turtles were barely out of childhood when he met them, but they were already soldiers — indeed, their entire lives have been colored by war, and he mourned that in the early days of their acquaintance. For all that he too is a warrior, he has had the luck to choose a great many of his battles, and not have them thrust upon him. What innocence he once possessed is gone, but he chose the path he treads.

Whatever choices Leonardo and his brothers might have made, had things not been as they are — and Usagi believes, presented with a different path, Leonardo would have taken one without the constant threat or need for violence — are lost to time, and to wars that they had no business fighting.

_Fathers_, Usagi thinks, his lip curling. _It is always the fathers and their legacies. Even now that one is dead, this poison lingers. Will it never be drawn out? How can I guide him through this maze?_

The answer is simple enough: he cannot guide — but he can listen, and offer what counsel he has.

Leonardo shakes himself, and nods in response to Usagi's words. "No," he replies, still not looking away from his hands. "I think it started a long time ago. Not anywhere near here either, but…" He lifts one hand in a graceless, futile gesture, and lets it fall back to the table heavily enough to rattle the plates. "Usagi, it's ridiculous. I can't believe I'm about to tell you this. Karai —" Leonardo shudders, his eyes closing, before he forces himself to go on. "She claimed it was the White Boar. That it was _real, _but — it's just a story. A story _I told her_, so of course she'd have to throw that back in my face, after everything else. Because she can't even leave that alone, she has to take everything and turn it into —"

Usagi waits while Leonardo composes himself, reciting poetry silently to keep himself from rising at once and finding Karai, wherever she lurks, and extracting payment for her sins. He wishes he could feel pity for her, for Leonardo's sake and for Splinter's, but there is nothing in Usagi's heart for Karai save that which is hard and dry and merciless.

She chose, long ago and far away, and her path is etched into Leonardo's flesh for the rest of his life. If Usagi could mark her so deeply, he would — though it would matter little, for nothing he could do to her would erase the stain she has left upon this family. A family that could have been_hers_, if she had chosen to be more than a weapon.

_Fathers_, Usagi thinks again, a red mist rising before his eyes. He wills it away, for this fury can benefit no one, least of all the friend before him.

When Leonardo has unclenched his fists and opened his eyes, Usagi pushes a bowl of fruit toward him. Leonardo makes to shove it away, but Usagi pins him with a stern glare — the age difference is still useful for something, provided Usagi does not abuse it — and Leonardo picks up a peach with a put-upon sigh. Usagi smiles, his heart lighter with every bite Leonardo takes. By the time nothing is left but the pit, Leonardo is smiling back, wiping the juices from his mouth and chin with the back of his arm.

"I have never heard this story," Usagi says. Once more, he pushes the bowl toward Leonardo until its rim bumps his arm, and softens the unspoken request by choosing an orange of his own. A long time ago, Michelangelo taught him the trick of peeling the orange in one long strip, and he practices now, slitting the rind and slowly pulling it away from the sweet flesh.

"What? You want me to tell it to _you_?" Leonardo asks, pausing with his hand over another peach. "Usagi, it's just one more lie. It doesn't matter."

"You told her the story," Usagi replies. "There is a reason why she chose to bring it up now."

"Yeah." Leonardo stares at the bowl, brow creasing, then shoves it away and leans back in his chair. "I'll tell you the reason. She wanted to mess with my head, again. It's what she _does_." He rubs the back of his neck. His mouth twists as he realizes what he is doing, and his hand falls to his lap as he gives Usagi a guilty, sad smile.

That smile is a keen blade sliding between Usagi's ribs. There is no escaping it, or the anger that follows. Leonardo may say he is free of her — he has said it for years, since his jaw healed enough for him to speak — but he is not free, and the lines in his flesh are only the least of the shackles that bind him to Karai. Usagi takes a deep breath, and focuses on the fruit in his hand, and its smell in the air.

"You really want to know?" Leonardo asks.

Usagi nods as the rinds falls to his lap, one long garish strip of orange. "Everything is useful," he says, and Leonardo laughs.

"Now you sound like Sensei," he says, and misses Usagi's little sneer of distaste as he reaches for his glass of water. He takes a long swallow, draining the glass completely, then turns to Usagi with that same guilty smile. "Once upon a time," he begins, then laughs again when Usagi frowns at him.

"Sorry, sorry. Stupid joke." Leonardo sighs, rolling his peach between his hands. "It's just…it's going to sound stupid no matter how I start. Figured I might as well start out as ridiculous as I could make it." He hesitates, his hands going still, and when he speaks again, his voice bears no resemblance to the voice of the boy Usagi met on a rainy night. This is the voice of a general, facing a new enemy when he thought his war was over.

"There's two of them, two gods. The White Boar and the Black Bull. And they've been fighting for — for as long as they've both existed. The Boar eats, and the Bull tries to stop it." Leonardo tosses the peach from one hand to the other. "That's the story. Pretty straight-forward, good-and-evil stuff. They weren't always gods, they started out as just animals, and then something happened to them, and turned them into gods."

"Something happened?" Usagi asks, before Leonardo can go on.

"Yeah, the story isn't really clear on a lot of details. But I always thought it had to do with hunger — the Boar eats, right? The story says the Boar eats _everything_. Not just food, but people — and worlds. Entire universes, gone bite by bite." Leonardo opens his mouth, like he wishes to take a bite of his peach, then sets the fruit aside. "And the Bull's the one who fights it, every inch of the way."

Usagi stares at the orange slices in his paws. The smell is still irresistibly sweet, but he no longer has any appetite. The story is no more horrifying than any other he has heard in his life, save for one idea: universe after universe, slipping down the throat of a monstrous, howling beast.

It is not simply horrifying, it is terrible beyond words to think of so many innocent lives snuffed out for the sake of sating a vast hunger. What could be so hungry that an entire universe is not enough to fill it? What kind of god would demand such sacrifice?

"The story doesn't tell us why they're fighting, or why the Bull cares, but I always thought it was —" Leonardo props his head on his hand, so thoughtful and so young that Usagi feels a thousand years old. "I thought it had to do with what they were. The Boar's a wild animal. Its life was always kill or be killed. So it eats. But the Bull? Humans domesticated cattle. Some cattle, at least. Humans fed them, cared for them, used them for work. There's a…covenant there." He picks up the peach again, and holds it close to his mouth. "Maybe enough loyalty for a god to care."

"I see," says Usagi. _I see, though I do not want to. _Even to himself, his voice is strained, and he buys himself a moment to think by eating a orange slice. Once he has chewed, and swallowed, he meets Leonardo's eyes. "This is a story Master Splinter told you?"

Leonardo laughs unexpectedly, leaning forward with his hand on Usagi's shoulder. The contact eases Usagi's heart, for Leonardo rarely reaches out, and these affectionate touches must be treasured when they occur. "Yeah, I know, right?" he says, still smiling as he straightens. "Telling scary stories to get four little kids to go to sleep. It shut us up, at least."

"I would think that getting children to sleep should not involve outright terror," Usagi says, and by the way Leonardo quirks a wry, sad smile at him, he knows that some of his ire at Master Splinter has shown through. Before he can apologize, Leonardo has turned his attention back to the peach and is speaking once more, in a quiet, musing voice.

"For gods, they're not too big on fighting their own battles. They get people to do it for them — the only difference between them is that the Boar tricks people, and the Bull's honest about it." Leonardo sighs. "That's what Karai said. The Boar asked her what she wanted, and she got it, but it took her heart as payment." He begins to roll the peach in his hands once more, and the motion sparks a low flame of irritation in Usagi's gut. Would that Leonardo would just _eat_ the damned thing —

Usagi blinks. His rage is familiar, but this annoyance feels like an ill-fitting glove.

"The Boar offers you what you want," Leonardo continues. "Your heart is the cost. Rips it right out of your chest, then hides it away, and it owns you, forever and ever. Amen." He sounds like a dreamer, as far from Usagi as if Usagi were still in his own world. "Then the Bull…it doesn't trick you, not like the Boar does, but it just demands your help. It names you its Champion, and off you go to fight its war like a good little soldier." He smiles bitterly at his peach, then at Usagi. "Story of my life."

"Leonardo —" Usagi says, and gives up, because he has nothing to say, and nothing he can do can erase this stain from his friend's heart.

"At least it gives you your _heart's desire_, if you survive the fight." Now Leonardo's voice is bitter, as bitter as his smile. "But that's the trick. The Boar almost always wins, because there's always somebody ready to sell out everything they care about to get what they want. Some of them don't even care about the price. Hearts are so cheap these days."

Usagi does not know if Leonardo is speaking of his own, or of Karai's, and dares not argue, not with Leonardo as brittle as a badly-used blade.

"It's just a story," Leonardo says. "The Boar and Bull. Just a scary story to keep us quiet at night. To keep us afraid." He clenches his free hand into a fist as his mouth trembles. "Sometimes I wish we had never gone topside."

That is as close to an indictment of his father as Leonardo will ever come, and Usagi does not pretend to know what it has cost him.

To soften the blow, Usagi speaks. "If you had not, I would not have known you."

It is a paltry gesture, for there is so much more he could say, that he should say, and yet the words will not come. Leonardo stares at him as if he is a stranger.

"Right," says Leonardo. "That's true."

Usagi's annoyance rises again, as sharp as a spear, and still unfamiliar. "It is not all lost, not yet," he snaps, and immediately regrets it. "If this is a story, as you say, then you have nothing to fear but her lies, and those you have faced before."

"Right," says Leonardo again. "Those I have faced."

Neither of them look at his arms, where the scars are a livid green against the rest of his skin.

"That's all there is to the story. Just the fight, over and over." Leonardo lets out a long breath and stands. He still holds the peach, though he does not seem to remember it. "Just one more trick." He starts, then glances down at the peach, as if amazed by its presence.

The annoyance comes over Usagi again as he sees Leonardo's hesitancy, and once more, he speaks more sharply than he wishes. "And what if it is? Why should you care? One more lie from Karai is but a drop in the ocean, Leonardo."

"But what if it's not?" Leonardo blazes. "I know, I'm an idiot, and I deserve what I get if she fools me again, but she was _terrified_. She begged us not to send her back — she begged _me_, after everything. But — what if it's not a trick? What if she told the truth? Just this once?"

"Has she ever?" Usagi sneers. "She does not seem to understand the word."

"_I know!_" Leonardo cries, and throws the peach at the wall, full-force. It shatters, rich pink flesh glistening as it streaks the stones.

"I know," says Leonardo, long moments later. He slumps, shoulders and head down, and makes his way to the mess. "I'm sorry," he adds. "Usagi, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have —"

Leonardo makes a noise like he is choking, and staggers away from the wall, moaning and with his arms held up to shield his face. Usagi is out of his chair before he realizes he is moving, catching Leonardo before he can fall.

"Leonardo, Leonardo! What is it?"

Leonardo thrashes in his arms, crying out, and it takes some moments before Usagi realizes that Leonardo is pointing, and trying to form words.

On the floor of the kitchen, the pit of the peach has cracked open, and something white has spilled out. A lily, sweetly-scented and white as milk against the grey of the stone floor.

"Lilies," Leonardo says, struggling for breath as the bloom's scent fills the kitchen. Usagi knows that no flower should smell so strong, so cloying, filling his nose and his lungs. "She smelled like lilies, Karai did, she smelled like —"

_This is madness,_ thinks Usagi, trying to hold Leonardo upright, trying to breathe through the smell and failing. _We are all of us mad_.

"It is not real!" he shouts, drawing Leonardo away from the flower — but the bloom is still growing, its petals a full hand-length long, and it will not stop growing. "Do not believe! It is not real, Leonardo!"

"It is," says a voice from behind him, as bleached as driftwood. Usagi turns as best he can, and over his shoulder sees Donatello and April in the doorway, Raphael and Michelangelo crowding in behind them.

"It's all real," says Donatello. "And I've seen it."

Leonardo goes very still, very still indeed, in Usagi's arms.

* * *

><p>"You've seen it," Leo hears himself say. His voice seems to come from far across the kitchen, or maybe from under the cold stones, but not from him. He's freezing, every inch of his body, except for his scars, and those burn, slender veins of fire in his skin.<p>

The lily's scent is everywhere, like sand in his mouth and lungs. He knows he's clutching Usagi's arm too tightly, but as long as the kitchen smells this way, he can't let go. With a little help from Usagi, he manages to pull himself upright, even though his legs tremble. At least he can put his back to the lily, and face Donnie.

Donnie, who looks about ten seconds from whiting out and tearing the lair down, like the only thing that's keeping him from destruction is April's grip on his hand.

"I've seen it," Donnie says again, and Leo has a horrible, dizzy moment where he thinks that they'll go back and forth like this forever, repeating themselves until the lily has overgrown the kitchen and swallowed them all. Then Donnie keeps speaking, and Leo feels the panic drain out of him, down past the fish and into the silty bottom. He breathes in, and even though he still smells the lily, he can loosen his grip on Usagi's arm — though he doesn't let go completely, not yet.

"The Boar was here," says Donnie, and that's as far as he gets before a shudder begins at his feet and works its way up through his legs. Leo watches, mesmerized, as the shudder reaches Donnie's neck and a rough, shapeless noise forces its way out of his mouth. He pulls away from April, veering off toward the sink, and slumps against the counter, his shell to all of them. Raph and Mikey try to follow him, but April stops them with a hard glare and they freeze in place.

"In the lab?" Leo asks. Donnie doesn't respond, doesn't move.

Something has broken his brother. Donnie never enjoyed the stories Splinter told them. He always wanted to be building, or tearing something apart so he could rebuild it, rather than listening to folk tales. Leo remembers his impatient sighs when it was time for bed, because time spent _listening_ was time not spent _working._ Donnie hated magic and ghosts and spirits; what he loved were wires and screwdrivers, circuit boards, logic, black and white. He loved the truth, and stories never told the truth.

And now the story is real, even if their only proof is a tooth, the lily, and what Donnie can't say. Leo will have to say it for him.

_Please, make me ready_, he prays, and lets go of Usagi's arm. He still has to tell the rest of the story. Already the words are burning in his throat, erasing the smell of the lily.

"There's one thing I didn't tell you, Usagi," he says. He doesn't look at Usagi; he keeps his eyes on Donnie, who is cradling his head in his hands. "The Boar almost always wins because it makes the Champion an offer. Whatever they want, to trade sides and betray the Bull."

When he was a child, old enough to lean his head on his father's knee, Leo wondered: _what if it was me? Would I be able to say no? Would I be able to beat the Boar? _

_Yes, I would. I have everything I want, right here. _

In the end, there was so much he wanted, and he never had any of it. The story has put its roots down all around him, and no offer has come for him. He is not the Champion. He is not the chosen one.

He's still only himself.

Donnie doesn't make a sound when Leo crosses the kitchen and lays his hands on Donnie's shoulders.

"That's how you know who the Champion is," says Leo, his voice crumbling at the edges. He closes his eyes, unable to stop the unbearable, sour relief rising in him. He has rotten wood instead of a beating heart, and he can't blame this rot on anyone but himself. "Donnie, what did it say it would give you?"

Raph starts to protest, but a soft, disbelieving sound is all that comes out. It might be _no_, or _not possible_, but it doesn't matter. Donnie turns around, his hands still cradling his head, and faces Leo.

_You've seen a god_, Leo thinks, sick at the cold age crawling into Donnie's gaze, and sick to his soul at how easy it is to think _I didn't, and I'm free._

Donnie says, "It won't kill you. It'll give me your lives if I go."

Leo waits for Mikey to whimper, or Raph to swear, but there is no sound in the kitchen but the steady, poisonous rustle of the lily's petals.

It's not him. He's just _Leo_.

It might be freedom he feels, or nothing at all. He can't tell.

Everyone is looking at him, waiting to follow his lead, and Leo wants to tell them that it doesn't matter, he's not the one who matters — but that means nothing. Donnie will not be alone in this fight.

Leo lets go of Donnie's shoulders slowly, reluctant to take away what little comfort he can give, but he must lead. He must be ready, and that means —

He crosses the kitchen with steady steps, his eyes forward, and picks up the lily. The petals feel like silk in his hand, and curl invitingly around his wrist. _Karai, _he thinks_, all I ever wanted from you was the truth, and now you give it to me, and it's this. _

His fist closes around the pit and the flower, and he crushes them both.

"Get Casey up," he says without turning around. "We need to get ready."


	6. Part One

**_March 14_****_th_****_, 1:03am. _**

"Your city smells like filth," Usagi says.

_We heard you the first three times_, Raph thinks, keeping his eyes forward. If he turns his head, he'll see Usagi's smug little face, and he'll see how Usagi's nose is twitching at the smell of _filth_, and then Raph is going to have to punch him. More than once.

At least the rain's stopped. For the past week, it's been nothing but rain, and as soon as Mikey and Donnie plug one leak in the ceiling, two more show up. Usagi could be thankful for _that_, but no, he's got to complain about how much the city stinks. With everything they've got going on, he's got to bitch about the _smell._

Raph's more glad than he can ever say that Usagi decided to stick around and try to help them keep their shit together, when no one would have argued if he just wanted to peace out back to his dimension, but he wishes like _hell_ that Usagi would shut his mouth. So New York stinks. It's not like Usagi is stuck here, or has to live in the sewer for the rest of his life. He's got somewhere better to go, whenever he wants. So if he doesn't like it, he can leave, and they'll deal with the smell on their own. It's what they've always done.

Usagi sighs, sniffs, and that's it. Raph's going to punch him. He can't help it; he managed to last two hours into patrol without saying shit, but he's hit his limit.

As he turns, already clenching his fists — just one punch, on the shoulder, he'll even pull it at the last second and pretend it was a joke — he catches Mikey's eye.

Mikey shakes his head. Just once, but Raph deflates completely.

If the first rule of the turtles is _don't fuck with family_, and the first rule of Casey Jones is _don't fuck with April_, then the first rule for dealing with Usagi is _don't be a dick to Leo's best friend_.

_Leo's mancrush, _Raph thinks, and glares back at Mikey. _How the hell am I gonna get through four more hours of this? _

Leo swings back up to the roof, without the grim set to his mouth that means he found trouble. "We're clear for the next two blocks," he says, sheathing his katana. "Let's move."

For the next hour, they dart over rooftops, one member of the team ranging ahead to count the next few blocks before doubling back to the group so they can all move on together. It's nothing like the rhythm Raph perfected with his brothers over the last decade and a half; Raph can't help feeling like they're not getting anywhere, even when he can look over his shoulder and see how far they've traveled. He wants to sprint off in one direction, and to know that Leo understands he's not just taking off for no reason, but to cover as much ground as possible. But he's stuck either waiting or circling back before he can run, and he feels jittery, impatient, like he's gotten into Donnie's coffee and then been forced to watch TV with Master Splinter, instead of working the caffeine off in the dojo.

With Usagi as the fourth member of the patrol, he can't run. They have to be patient, work Usagi into their routine, adjust to fit his skill set. It's not that much of a challenge — what do ninjas do? They _adapt _— but Raph doesn't want to adapt. He wants to fight, and he wants Donnie here, rambling about some new tech masterpiece. He wants Casey and April working the perimeters, watching for attacks on their flanks.

He wants it all back to normal.

_Normal. Right. _He lets Mikey pass him before the next jump, then crouches, relishing the gravel scraping under his feet as he pushes off, then springs into the air. There's always that one, stomach-flipping second when he wonders if this is the jump he judges wrong, and he'll slam into the side of a building, but he lands on his feet, already running. Leo and Usagi are at the other end of the roof, pointing and talking with their heads close, and Raph hopes that they've finally caught sight of someone worth pounding. It's been too quiet this past week, since the peach in the kitchen and Leo screaming and Donnie staring at them like he had no idea who they were.

Nothing good ever comes out of this much quiet.

_Normal_, he thinks again, as he catches up to the rest. _When we just had random goons to worry about, not some mystical asshole. I hate my life. _

* * *

><p><strong> <em>March 6<em>****_th_****_, 9:30am. _**

_Over Anna's cinnamon rolls — she sent enough to feed an army of teenagers, or four mutant turtles and their friends — Leo starts to talk. _

_Raph ignores him; he never has anything to add to the first part of planning, and most of the time, Leo doesn't include him or Mikey. He'll come up with his plan, then he hauls Donnie in to say "But what about this? Or what if there are butt cannons? And here's my latest weird invention that's totally going to save our shells if you let me use it". Once they've hashed all that out, that's when Raph and Mikey join the fun, and figure out where they'll be able to make the most noise, and break the most stuff. _

_That part's still a long time coming, so Raph zones out and focuses on his third helping of lasagna, making sure Casey stays upright and awake long enough to get some soup into him. _

_"No! No! Why is this even a question?" _

_Raph glances up, already scowling, because April only sounds like that when she's getting ready to cut someone off at the knees. Sure enough, she's glaring at Leo, her hand clenched around her fork like she's about to plant it between his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time she's tried. Ninety percent of the time, Leo and April agree on everything, but it gets ugly when April thinks Leo's being an idiot. And since both of them are too stubborn to ever admit when they're wrong, this argument could go on for hours. _

_"We have no idea what we're going up against," Leo says, in the exact tone of voice he keeps for when he wants to sound like he's listening to you and telling you you're an idiot at once. Raph rolls his eyes. "We need all the allies we can get." _

_"So hauling Martin and Timothy into this — whatever this is — is an option? You're fucking kidding me." She throws her fork on the table and turns to Donnie. "Oh my god, you're not considering it too, are you?" _

_Donnie pushes his plate away, and Raph has two seconds to process Donnie's thoughtful, distracted frown before April explodes. _

_"They're not soldiers!" she yells. On the edges of his vision, Raph sees Casey grabbing for April's arm, wincing, and Usagi flinching away from the noise with a wrinkled nose, like he's just stepped in dogshit. "I can't believe you two would even _think_ this is okay." _

_"Leo might have a point," says Donnie, still thoughtful. "There are too many variables to be sure, but…"_

_"Oh, that smells like bullshit and you know it." April shoves away from the table, yanking her arm out of Casey's grip and sending him falling back against Raph's side. "Has there been some massive brain damage recently that I missed, or have you guys forgotten what happened the last time Timothy got involved? And Martin thinks it's all a game. He'll do it if you guys ask, but he won't get it. Fuck you, Leo, for even considering this." _

_Raph looks at Leo in time to see the first flash of real anger in his brother's eyes. Leo's gotten so much better about not taking criticism personally, but this isn't criticism, and Leo's about to say something he'll regret. Before he can, April keeps going, practically spitting. _

_"You want me to see if Kurtzman's free, Leo? You want to haul in an old man to fight some — some _god_ with us?" _

_Leo stands up, his hands balled into fists. "We're down to half our strength, April. What choice do we have?"_

_"Anything but this!" _

_"Is he free?" Mikey asks, spearing a forkful of noodles and twirling them in midair. "We haven't seen him in a while." _

_April blinks, Leo blinks. Raph snorts, and covers it by coughing and pretending to check Casey's bandages. _

_"Who?" April and Leo say in unison. _

_Mikey takes his time replying, chewing and swallowing the noodles first, then licking his fork clean. "Kurtzman. Cool guy, for an old dude." _

_"Uh." April blinks again, shaking her head. "No, he's at some chess thing. He'll be gone for another month." She takes a deep breath, rolling her bad shoulder, then inches back toward the table. She's apologetic now, and Leo is deflated — just the way Mikey planned, Raph knows, and glances across the table at Mikey. _

_Mikey grins at him, sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth, and keeps eating. _

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 14<em>****_th_****_, 2:57am._**

On one of Mikey's turns scouting ahead, Raph finally says what's been on his mind for a week.

"You know, I agree with April. About not bringing in anyone else."

Usagi cocks his head at Raph, a frown twisting the scar over his eye, but Leo doesn't react. He faces Mikey's direction, head lifted high.

"Do you?" he says finally, still not looking at Raph. "You didn't have much of a problem telling me to send in Timothy before."

Raph winces, even though he expected that, but he's got a response all ready. "Yeah, I know. But you remember how much it messed Donnie up. He's still blaming himself for all of that."

"Timothy let himself get mutated." Leo jumps down from the ledge, landing so softly the gravel under his feet barely stirs. "None of us were going to stop him. It wasn't Donnie's fault."

"That's not my point." Raph inhales, the cold air stinging in his throat — and yeah, Usagi wasn't kidding, the city _stinks._ "My point is, Donnie's already got enough to worry about. This Champion shit? We don't know what it means. He's got to fight the Boar, but how? And you know he's all creased up over April and Casey too. Why give him anything else to worry about?"

"So the moral question does not trouble you," says Usagi. "It is the personal complications that do."

"Yeah, however you want to say it." Raph shrugs. "Look, Leo, I get why you want to do this, but maybe…maybe not now? Table it for a while."

Leo narrows his eyes, and the old impulse to push into Leo's space takes hold in Raph's chest. He still doesn't quite have the trick of _not_ trying to bait Leo whenever he gets the chance, but he can resist. Most of the time.

"Can't use up everything we got at once," he says, and gives another shrug. "Just saying."

"It's not about a pre-emptive strike." Leo runs his hand over his head. "It's about having contingency plans. We're still down by three, Raph, and even if Donnie'll be back on his feet in another week or two, we've lost our eyes and ears. April can't exactly go home, and Casey's not going to be fighting any time soon. We're —"

"Hamstrung," says Usagi, when Leo hesitates over the words. "It is a good strategy," he adds, with only a wave of his hand when Raph glares at him. "Respect for one's enemy is a good strategy as well, Raphael."

"Whatever we're up against tried to _eat_ Donnie and Casey. I'm not respecting shit." Raph shakes his head, and turns back to Leo. "We keep a little in reserve, just in case. And that means Donnie can focus on — whatever it is he's got to do."

Leo nods, not really agreeing, but not shooting Raph down either. Raph knows when to shut up — most of the time, he knows — so he backs off, and walks to the edge of the roof and looks out over the city.

He really hates to admit it, but Usagi's right. The city does smell, but not like filth. More like what stunk up April's apartment a week ago, rotted meat and —

_Oh, shit. _He backs away from the edge, ice creeping through his chest, but the moment he opens his mouth to call Leo and Usagi, he sees a flicker of movement on a rooftop two buildings away.

Raph tenses, his hands moving to the hilts of his sai, and crouches down, out of sight. The movement is gone, but he knows he saw something — no, he saw _someone_, because it sure as hell had two legs and two arms.

"You got something, Raph?" says Leo, from just over his shoulder. Raph jumps — it's never not going to be freaky, the way Leo manages to be absolutely silent — and squints back at the roof.

If anything or anyone was there, it's gone now. But that smell still lingers, clinging to the back of his throat whenever he inhales.

_Probably just my brain messing around, since nothing's happened all night_, he decides, and shakes his head.

"Nothing. Nobody," he says, standing and turning to Leo seconds before Mikey leaps back to the roof, out of breath and pointing at the sky.

A flash of jade-green light blinds them all as it erupts over the city.

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 13<em>****_th_****_, 3:38am._**

Her leg and shoulder aren't aching, but April stands up to stretch her muscles anyways. She's felt fine for the past week, even with the lair cold and damp from the rain, but she doesn't want to risk a cramp by staying in one position too long. Besides, it's time to check on Casey, then to run the tests again, and see if she gets any new data.

The moment her chair scrapes against the floor, Donnie looks up from his microscope, eyes wide and unreadable.

"Everything's fine," she says. "Just going to look in on Sleeping Beauty."

That earns her a soft _ha_, but no smile, no easing of the tension lines on either side of Donnie's mouth. His shoulders are still stiff, begging for her hands to soothe the muscles under his skin, but April contents herself with one pat, one squeeze, and heads toward the common room. She hears Donnie turn back to his microscope before she's three feet away from the desk, but she knows he's aware of where she is, every step of the way.

He's said ten words to her at most since they started working in the lab at nine o'clock the night before, two variations on _could you pass me that_, but not wanting to talk doesn't seem to mean he wants her out of his sight. As soon as she moves, his gaze is on her, still a little stunned, a little frightened.

_What did you see_? April doesn't ask. The only thing crueler than not listening to Donnie when he needs to talk is forcing him to talk when he doesn't have the words yet. April isn't stupid; she knows whatever happened to Donnie between him slipping into the lab to talk to Jenny and coming back to the room with his head full of ice had to do with her, and she knows that he'll tell her when she's ready.

With the Boar's shadow looming over all of them, and the new weight of being the _Champion_ weighing on his shoulders, April knows they don't have much time for Donnie to figure out how he wants to tell the story. She won't push, she won't press — but she wants to. He's dragged so much behind him all these years, and now she's ready to carry it for him, but he won't let her.

_Give him time_, she tells herself, and focuses on her test: what are her powers' perimeters, now that the Boar's done its work on her? Related: are her limitations based on proximity alone, or does staying within sight help? And is she still able to feel the turtles' and Casey's minds because she's felt them for so long?

How far can she go before she can't feel Donnie at all?

April know his mind so well; she's spent the last ten years being caught by surprise by its few jagged edges, being soothed by its calm weight. She can still sense him when she reaches the lab doors, warm, grey misery like goosedown in a dim room. Heavy as bags of sand, a taste like seawater on a cold day, broken only by the spear-tip of Donnie's intelligence. Yes, there it is.

With another step, it's gone.

She pauses midstep, trying to reorient herself. Fifteen feet. That's all she has before the gates come down and she's alone in her head.

_Good to know_. She rests her head against the cool doorframe and closes her eyes. It's ridiculous to feel like she's trapped when it's just her inside her skull now, without five other minds jostling hers, but she never felt hemmed in or caged before. Feeling their minds was an expansion, not an intrusion.

There are five steps between the outer edges of Donnie and Casey's minds. April wants to comfort herself by saying the walk feels like it goes on for centuries, or that every step she takes is harder than the last, but it takes barely any time at all, and each step follows the last without any extra exertion. It's normal to be the sole occupant of your mind, not the other way around, and trying to imagine anomalous qualities where none exist will do nothing but frighten her.

And really, April has enough to be frightened of, just as she is.

Casey's mind washes over her, like the sunlit water of the lake up by the farmhouse. Even sleeping, Casey's mind is never still, always roaming, questing for new space to fill with noise and light. It feels like well-worn flannel as April gets closer, and by the time she kneels next to the couch, she feels like she's wrapped in a heavy blanket.

"Hey, Casey," she says, not loud enough to wake him, and brushes the hair off his forehead. He's warm, though Casey always runs hot, especially compared to her and the turtles. It's not a fever, but April decides to wake up him in an hour and force some soup and aspirin into him, just to be safe. By then, Raph should be home, and can help if Casey decides he'd rather tough it out. Which, knowing Casey, he probably will; when Casey gets hurt, he tries to power his way through to the other side, like he can magically heal himself by being too stubborn for pain and medicine, and he's always furious when he ends up stuck in bed for twice as long. Like the time he got _shot in the ass_ by some over-eager Kraang, then tried to go to hockey practice, and ended up with a blood infection.

_Good times_, April thinks, letting her head fall to the couch. _My ex-boyfriend's an idiot._ She rubs Casey's back, lifting his shirt to check his bandage. The gauze is snow-white, clean as it was when Raph changed the dressing before patrol. His breathing is steady, with a slight whistle as it passes through his teeth, and April finds herself relaxing, drifting into a doze as she listens to him dreaming. Maybe he's dreaming of Raph, and whatever passes for romance between the two of them — beer and rug burn and slinging arms over each other's shoulders when they think no one is looking.

She laughs sleepily. Her last two cups of coffee were an hour ago, and now her exhaustion is settling deep into her bones. Falling asleep in this position means she'll wake up with a wicked crick in her neck, but she's warm. Down in the lair, that's an unexpected blessing, and she should grab a few minutes of rest before the rest of the guys come home and the lair is full of noise again. Before her head is crowded again.

Smiling at the thought, April reaches up to snag one of Casey's blankets for herself, and hears him groan.

"Casey? You awake?" she whispers, inanely, more startled than she expected. "You need me to get something —"

"Pretty," says Casey, his tongue lolling in his open mouth. The word is thick, clotted, like his throat is full of mud, but he works his jaw, swallows, and tries again. "Pretty, pretty girl."

April shoves herself away from the couch, nearly falling on her back as she does, barely feeling the protesting twinge in her thigh and shoulder. She doesn't know why the words terrifies her so much, but something in her shrivels at their sound.

"No." Her voice is so small, as fragile as an insect husk, and every instinct she has tells her to _run_, but her muscles aren't listening. She can't even stand. All she can do is watch Casey's mouth as it opens and closes, panting the same words again and again. His eyes roll under his lids, but don't open.

_He's asleep, he has to be_, she thinks, her heart pounding. _He doesn't know what he's saying. _

_But I do. _

There was a woman, a woman all in white on the train, with a crooked smile and a smell like jasmine, and she did something, touched April, planted something in her, something that took ever so long to grow, but it found fertile soil in April's body and now it's _growing_, it's grown so huge.

Now it's in Casey.

"Pretty," says Casey, his eyes still closed. "Pretty, pretty, pretty."

"No!" April tries to shout, but her voice is lost. Instead, she raises her hand, her five fingers spread wide, and snaps them closed into a fist.

She doesn't know why she does it; there's no instinct or silent instruction telling her what to do, but as soon as she feels her hand clench, Casey's mouth snaps shut, and the words are gone.

"Dammit," he mutters a moment later. His eyes open a moment later, filled with his usual bleary annoyance at being awakened. "Bit my tongue." He grimaces as he swallows, and keep grimacing as he rolls onto his back.

He's asleep again within minutes, snoring the way he always does when he sleeps on his back. April lowers her hand slowly, uncurling her fingers as she does. A faint smear of color catches her attention; there, in the palm of her right hand is a tiny, perfect crescent of frostbite-black skin.

"That's — that's new," she says to fill the silence.

Just for the sake of argument, she lifts her left hand, palm-up.

A slash, white as whale bone, bisects her palm from wrist to knuckle.

"Oh, Jesus," she mutters. "You've got to be kidding me."

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 13<em>****_th_****_, 8:12am. _**

She's gotten a hell of a lot better at tracking over the past few months, but the freaks almost had her this time. Thank God that weird flash — whatever the hell _that_ was — had distracted them, or she'd be in the shit for sure. The short one in red saw her, no mistake, but she got away before he could get a good look.

Next time, she'd get close enough to hear them talking. No way they were gonna run around her neighborhood without her doing something about it.

She stashes her sticks down in the laundry room of her grandmother's building. If Gran sees her with them, she'll have to deal with head smacks and hollering and just — no. She's too tired for that this morning, and she's got class in five hours. Just enough time to grab a nap and a shower, then to watch the news to see if someone's figured out what that flash was.

Not like New York doesn't already have enough shit to deal with. Aliens, mutant freaks, and now lights in the sky. And there was that smell, too, thick as maple syrup and twice as nasty as the dumpster out back of the butcher shop.

Too much weird shit. She can't let herself get distracted; she's gotta look out for her neighborhood first, for Gran and all her friends. And that means figuring out what those green freaks are up to, and leaving that light to the brainiacs.

_Gotta be more careful. Might not be so lucky next time_, she warns herself, kicking off her boots outside Gran's apartment door and toeing into her house slippers. "I'm home!" she calls softly as she opens the door, Gran's already in the kitchen, making breakfast. "Did you see that flash? What the hell do you think it — ow! Gran!"

Her grandmother backs away, hand still in prime head-smacking position. "Angel, you got too dirty a mouth for such a pretty girl."

She glowers, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. "Told you not to call me Angel. I'm not ten years old anymore, Gran."

Gran reaches up and pats her cheek, shaking her head. "You're always gonna be my angel. Now, what's this about some light? You hanging out at the clubs?"

Angel laughs, flopping gracelessly onto the couch. "Nah, none of that sh —stuff," she says, when Gran pulls her hand back. "Just up top, you know, looking out."

"You should be sleeping, not running around looking for trouble." Gran puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. "You work too hard. You need to take care of yourself."

"Yeah, who's gonna take care of you if I don't?" Angel pushes her hair off her forehead and gives Gran a hard look. "There's some weird guys out there."

"I got friends," says Gran, with another shake of her head. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I always will. And Anna and Sandra and all those ladies aren't much of an army. Not when there's…green freaks running around." Angel picks at her fingernails, not noticing Gran's unblinking gaze till the silence gets too heavy, and she looks up. "What? Gran, what is it?"

"You said green freaks?" says Gran. "You mean like, turtles?"

Angel sits up so quickly she tumbles off the sofa. "What? You've seen 'em? Gran, are you okay? Were they in here? Did they — did they hurt you? Oh my God — _ow, Gran!_"

"Don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain," Gran snaps, her eyes glittering.

"All right, all right, I'm sorry, but — Gran, you've _seen_ those guys? Are you okay?"

"Four of 'em, right?" Now Gran's smiling, her blunt white dentures on display. She looks — _happy_, not freaked out like Angel would expect.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "Four. Got different colored masks, too. I only saw three of 'em tonight, though — they had some, like, _rabbit_ with 'em tonight. I don't know. He was all dressed up like some kinda samurai. It was _weird._"

Gran bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach and wheezing hard enough that Angel has to haul her to an easy chair before she can recover.

"Oh, Angel," she says through a gasp, after Angel brings her a glass of water. "I don't know about this samurai bunny, but those green freaks of yours? They're nice boys. Sit down. I got a _lot_ to tell you."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Else-when. <em>**

"No sunrise today," says Raphael. Leonardo hears the rustle of his jacket, then the creak of the old seat as Raphael settles in next to him. "Still want to send out the patrols, fearless leader?"

Leonardo nods. He sets his cup aside — not tea, just a few dried mint leaves in hot water — and stretches his fingers. It's not too cold today, not too wet either, and his knuckles aren't quite so swollen as they were yesterday. "Tell them to follow Wednesday's pattern. Can't have them getting predictable."

"You got it. I'll tell the squad leaders at shift change." Raphael leans back with a sigh. "How're you feeling today?"

"Fine." He tilts his head back and takes off his glasses. The room around him is a dull, grey blur, with or without his glasses, but he can see brighter spots of color: Raphael's skin, a faded pink blanket throw over a yellow couch. "No headaches, but vision's about the same as it was."

"You should get that doctor guy to take a look at you, the one who came in with the last group. He used to be a general practitioner down in Florida, back before."

"Sure," says Leonardo, slipping his glasses back on. "I'll get right on that, Raphael."

His brother sighs, an ugly, worn-out sound, but doesn't argue. They're not easy together, they never will be, but they've both learned how not to make the cracks any deeper.

"You heard from Mike lately?" he asks, when Raphael starts to shift like he's about to leave. The silence before Raphael responds is too long for the answer to be anything but _no. _

"Nah. Last I heard, he was somewhere up in Massachusetts. One of the supply runners saw him near the old farmhouse." Raphael sinks back into his seat, the cushions groaning. "He's still looking."

Leonardo shakes his head. "He should know better."

"You can tell him that if he ever decides to come back."

His hands want to clench into fists, but he'll pay for it later if he lets them, so he picks up his cup again, more to have something to hold than to drink. "It's been almost thirty years," he says, as calmly as he's able. "We're running out of time to fight. Mike shouldn't be wasting his time looking."

"Then maybe you should be doing a better job keeping your troops in order, Leonardo," says a new voice. Leonardo sits up straight, his cup forgotten, and feels Raph do the same at his side.

"You're back," he says, choking on the words.

"Yeah," says Mike. "For now. Needed to grab some stuff before I went out again."

_He sounds so old_, Leonardo thinks, on a wave of futile longing. They all do. Even the children born since the war started sound ancient, but it's Mike's voice that brings it home every time he hears it. He wonders if Mike still has freckles. There's no sun now to bring them out, but Mike always had them when they lived in the sewer, so maybe. Maybe. It'd be nice if some of those good days remained. Just this one thing.

"Again?" says Raphael. "Mike, seriously, you've gotta stop."

"No." It's a simple refusal, flat and empty. Leonardo closes his eyes, so his world is just black instead of variations on grey. "I'm not going to stop. There's something out there. A clue."

"If there was, we'd have found it by now." Leonardo mouths the words, feels them leave his throat, but they don't feel like something he would say. They've been following this script for so long that the words don't make any sense. Mike hopes, Raphael asks him to stay, and Leonardo tells him there's no more hope to be had. He doesn't need eyes to see that.

"If we'd all look together, maybe we'd find something," Mike argues, but with no real conviction. "Whatever. I'll be gone in the morning. You guys…yeah."

Leonardo listens for his footsteps to recede, or a door to close, but he hears nothing but his brothers' steady breathing. Even that sound is wrong, not quite whole, and he hates how it still hurts, how this wound won't heal.

"Leonardo, we're almost — Mike?"

_Speaking of wounds_, thinks Leonardo, opening his eyes. Alice is here, her hair vivid enough to be a blur of red even through his glasses.

"Hey, kiddo," says Mike, his voice light for the first time. "Looking good."

Alice laughs, and Leonardo imagines her shoving her hair behind her ears, and her bright, crooked smile. "Don't even start, we both know I look like hell. Hug?"

"For you? Anytime."

Leonardo hears them embrace, a quick, tight hug, and his brief wish that Alice would hug _him_ is gone before Alice's footsteps cross fully into the room.

"So where've you been?" she asks. "Supply run?"

Mike hesitates, and Alice sucks in a breath through her teeth.

"Oh. Right. Stupid me." She breathes in again, loud enough for Leonardo to hear. Raphael stands up, leaving Leonardo alone on the couch. He can picture Raphael moving in to intercept Alice before she loses her temper, one hand on her thin shoulder.

"Alice, I —" Mike hesitates again, and Alice leaps in, talking to Leonardo now, as if Mike no longer exists.

"Casey gave me the evening patrol reports, so I'm ready to go over them when you are," she says, the soldier again. "Nothing new except some building collapses. We'll have to change patrol routes to compensate."

"Alice," says Mike. He's almost pleading. "Come on, you gotta understand."

_She's giving him that look of April's_. _The shitlook. _Leonardo is so sure of this he'd stake his life on it, not that there's much of that left to stake.

"You do what you want, Mike. It's not my business," says Alice, in the arctic tones she could only have learned from one person. There's one bloody, aching second when Leonardo thinks he hears another voice underneath hers, and even if he doesn't have it in him to hope, anymore, that things could get better, there's still enough of him left to wish they were still a family.

"He's my brother," says Mike, his voice choked and close to tears, "And they're your —"

"They're _gone_, Mike." Leonardo wishes Alice would throw her clipboard or shout, like the Alice of fifteen or even ten years ago would have, but she only sighs, a grey, weary sound in Leonardo's grey, weary world. "Hope's for idiots. When are you going to get over it? I did."

No, she didn't, Leonardo knows, but it won't help Alice to remind her that they're all orphans now, one way or another.


End file.
